What Must Be
by Kurome Shiretsu
Summary: “You’ve changed. In battle, you squint your right eye as though it can’t see well, and you favor your left arm as though it were maimed somehow. You’re… darker, angrier. Frightening. Guts, what’s happened to you?”
1. When You Must Die

Title: _What Must Be_

**Summary: **At the end of it all, Guts is 'killed' by Femto, but unexpectedly awakens among his companions from the Band of the Hawk. He wishes that his memories of the Godhand were merely a dream, but the Brand of Sacrifice remains.

**Rating:** PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it _is_ Berserk, after all.)

**Warnings:** Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.

**Author Notes: **Another plot bunny that was gnawing on my brain. I was getting frustrated from the lack of lengthy, worthy Berserk fanfiction to be found (There is some, don't get me wrong, but it's hard to get to. Try the profile of Hott on ff . net if you're interested.) I was also thoroughly depressed by the dark turns taken by the manga (this is mostly manga-verse, FYI). Face facts, I like Guts and Griffith and the rest of the Hawks, and I wondered how things might have turned out differently. Here's my take.

Don't worry, this won't be a play-by-play of the original storyline. This will take its own twists and turns, so if you enjoyed the Golden Years of the Band of the Hawk, you'll _love_ this.

* * *

**-Chapter One-**

_**When You Must Die

* * *

**_

He had thought that dying would hurt more. Living had certainly hurt like a bitch, so wouldn't dying be even worse?

Ironically enough, all that he felt was cold. Cold, and an odd sort of pressure below his sternum where the clawed hand of Femto-once-Griffith had taken a leisurely sort of residence. The multitudes of cuts and bruises that he was _certain_ covered the majority of his skin had fallen into a kind of stunned silence, and numbness was quickly shuffling them to one side, giving itself more room to lounge around within his body and watch the remainder of his life play out as it would. Even the searing agony of the Brand of Sacrifice was muted, though the blood still flowed from it in a steady, unending stream.

His forehead was resting against the demon's icy armor. _Was_ it even armor anymore? What he had spent the longest time thinking of as a 'creepy, demony cloak' was actually closer in comparison to 'creepy, demony wings'… bone and muscle and flesh, after all. Who was he to say?

He found enough energy to smirk, though without being able to see from his right eye, he was left at a loss as to whether the demon was actually looking his way. "You aimed… a li-little too low…"

_Won't die unless y' pierce my heart or cut off my head, Femto. Same 's you. Din'tcha know that?_

And what was left but to die?

His sword, which he had begun to think truly 'unbreakable', was shattered rather spectacularly over the multiple twisted staircases of the strange, alternate dimension that hosted the Godhand.

His arm, the metal arm that had seen him through so many battles, lay crumpled and useless behind him somewhere.

His daggers were spent, his arrows broken, his blood painted along the stones in alarmingly expansive patterns.

And Puck… was…

Stupid elf… Stupid little bug. How many times had Guts _told_ him to keep away? Ordered, threatened, suggested… Stupid, _stupid_ little elf…

Abruptly, the fingers housed so snugly within his gut twisted, and Guts discovered that numbness was slacking off on the job quite a bit more than he would have liked. His breathing hitched… Femto-once-Griffith was exploring Guts' guts. His dark sense of humor, as starved and atrophied as it was, found the dark irony appealing.

"A-anythin'… int-interestin' in… in there?"

"**You should have died.**" The voice, Griffith's voice but more guttural and sibilant, rumbled past his ear, vibrating through his skull from his contact with the demon's shoulder. He realized that he was only upright due to the demon's rocklike solidity against him.

Guts sneered, the expression showing as little more than a twitch, but he was still blind to the expression of the demon whose face was mere inches away. "Y-you'll hafta'… sp-specify…"

_Died? When? At birth, during training with Gambino, alone in the wars of men… on Griffith's sword, Caska's perhaps… from the Battle of a Hundred Men? From being hounded across the earth by all of demonkind? There're so many to choose from…_

"**You were supposed to die. The eclipse was supposed to end it all.**"

…_but it was only the beginning, wasn't it?_

"Sh-shoulda' t-told me… at the… at the start…" His mouth was coated in blood, and it was getting harder to breathe. "Saved… some trouble…"

Moist warmth brushed his neck, and an arm that seemed more made of metal than muscle coiled around his shoulders, pressing him against the demon. The warmth came again, and he wondered how he must look with a member of the Godhand literally breathing down his neck.

"**I was supposed to choose where you would die. You were supposed to _die!_**"

The last word was nearly a snarl, and the fingers twisted again in ill-contained rage. Guts actually found himself wishing that the demon would get on with the killing part instead of exploring his intestines tactilely.

And then the voice changed… not so guttural, not so sibilant, and there was a hint of cultured overtones that Guts had not heard in _years_…

"…_none of this was supposed to happen…_"

The man known now as the Black Swordsman jerked violently within the cage of the demon's arms, trying to turn his head, trying to see, but the shoulder before him still bore that odd, fleshy armor, and that hand was still in his stomach, and he _could not move…!_

"_I will still choose where you die…_"

And then the mark upon his neck was burning, searing, charring his flesh and taking away thought even as those fingers jerked violently upward, into his ribcage, past his lungs, and his heart…

…stopped…

…leaving Guts to fall deeper into a sea of fire that burned black with shadows.

"…_and you will not die here…_"

* * *

"…won't let you! Stubborn bastard, _breathe_, damn you!" 

Cold and pain… His faithful companions had found him again. Icy chills ran their fingers over his face and down his neck, over his chest and stomach except for one area which was warm if not hot at the center of his chest, and that was where pain had settled itself comfortably, jabbing him with sadistic glee and annoying regularity.

"Don't you dare do this, don't you _dare!_ You have any idea what the others will _do_ to me if you die?"

Something covered his mouth, warm and wet, and air forced its way down his throat, and the pain eased for a short moment.

Funny that he could hear nothing beyond that one voice…

And then there was something pounding on his chest, and the pain began again, and the voice grew louder even as something in his chest hitched…

Sound came slamming back. Horses whinnying and hooves stomping hard ground, the metallic jingles of horse tack and armor and weapons, and men were shouting all around, wind rushing, and his own breath gurgled in the back of his throat while his heart surged into a loud, belligerent pounding in his ears.

A cry of relief, and someone was turning him over, allowing him to cough up the metallic blood that threatened to choke him, and he dragged burning draughts of icy air into his lungs before coughing it out again a mere moment later, realizing all at once that his neck still burned with a fading pain, but his stomach merely ached, and _where was Femto…?_

His hand curled, clenching around a fistful of dry grass and cold soil, and he squinted open his eye, but there were only blurs and movement, and he was lying on his left side with his eye nearly pressed against the ground anyway so what was the use? Something firm and warm was on his shoulder, holding him on his side as he gagged up more of his own blood.

"_Cri-i-ipes!_" Something shifted in front of him, the vague outline of a human being, and light glinted off silver armor and yellow hair, and… didn't he know that voice? "Don't _do_ stuff like that. I nearly had heart failure!"

More voices, crowded close around him, each one crying a different thing, but the word _captain_ stood out above all, and the pit of his stomach twisted as his thoughts lurched, and as he twisted his head —much to the displeasure of his skull and the majority of his body— his eye blinked and focused uncertainly upon a tanned face, a lopsided, worried smile, and a freckle-dotted nose that he knew only too well.

_Judeau…_

He spat out more blood, his throat burning, as he forced a pained "… what…?" out of his uncooperative vocal cords.

_You're dead. How can I see you if you're dead?_

But if Judeau was dead, that meant he was a spirit. A spirit had no body, so why could Guts feel the young man's hand resting so solidly against his shoulder?

… _Am I dead, too?_

His right hand uncurled from around its fistful of dirt and dead leaves and moved to press against his stomach. Aches and pains followed the movement, as well as the discovery of several notable cuts and scrapes that he had not noticed, but there was no sign that…

…_Femto…_

…that he had been so horribly wounded.

_Death isn't supposed to still hurt like this._

"Captain?" Another ghost from his past leaned forward, on one knee behind Judeau and seeming so much larger when beside the slender scout, and Guts wondered if he was going mad.

_Gaston…_ And behind the second-in-command of the Hawks' Raiders were more: Tils and Beddyr and Morrigan and Leil and so many others that had faded in his mind but never truly disappeared. All were watching him with varying degrees of anxiety blended with relief.

Then his eye focused closer, upon the hand that was resting palm-up on the ground in front of his face. Surely he was not lying on top of a corpse… it had happened before, certainly, but he could feel nothing beneath him to suggest a body, and the hand twitched with life, it's fingers half-curling.

And Guts could _feel _it happen.

_My hand._

How many years had it been since he had felt anything but phantom pains from where his left arm should be?

_The Eclipse… and the sacrifice…_

He was looking at his hand out of _two eyes_.

_It didn't happen? Griffith…he hasn't…_

The hand upon his shoulder shook him slightly. "Guts?" Concern had reinserted itself in Judeau's voice, his query echoed by a worried 'Captain Guts, sir?' from Gaston. "Guts, are you okay?"

Guts blinked.

_It wasn't real. _

He pressed his hand against the chilled earth and rolled himself slightly to get both of his arms beneath himself. The hand on his shoulder vanished. His skin was streaked with blood and dirt, small cuts decorating his arms, but that was something he was accustomed to seeing, especially when surrounded by mounted, armored men on what he greatly suspected was a battlefield.

His brains moaned unhappily at him for the movement, as did most of his body, especially his stomach, but he squinted… _Been through worse in training practice_… and forced his muscles to obey until he was kneeling, braced with one hand, and could see his breastplate and sword and cloak lying to one side. A chestnut horse that he remembered as his own, larger than many around it and without a rider, stood nearby, its reins held securely by one of the mounted men. They all now seemed alien and unfamiliar after…

…_after so many years…_

…after the nightmare, hallucination, or what-have-you.

He started to shake his head to clear his muddled mind but gave up after an aborted twitch resulted in the ground beneath him tilting alarmingly. Something trickled over his lip and down his chin, and he raised his free hand to wipe away what he knew was even more blood.

He raised his eyes to meet those of Judeau and Gaston, then to scan the horsemen ringing them who were dividing their attention between keeping guard –_My Raiders_—and watching the tableau unfolding between the three men on the ground.

"What happened?" His voice was still scratchy and guttural, and damned if he knew why.

"I don't know, sir." Gaston still looked as though he expected his commander to fall flat on his face once more… and Guts was unhappy, to say the least, when he admitted to himself that that might not be very far from the truth. He felt as though his blood was on fire. "You were leading the Raiders in the charge alongside Captain Judeau's Scouts, and you were fightin' same as always, but then you… I don't know, sir, you just _fell_."

Guts blinked. "I fell."

"Yes, sir."

Judeau was scanning Guts from head to toe. "It was close. Your men did fantastically, holding off the other army until the enemy was driven away. Are you injured?" He smiled abruptly. "More so than the usual, I mean."

Guts felt some of his old humor creep back warily, like a cat entering a kennel of hounds. "The 'usual' would mean at least one near-fatal wound, Judeau, if not two or three."

Judeau's smile widened, but then his eyes focused on something to one side of Guts' face, and his mouth scrunched in a frown. "_Something_ nicked you pretty badly. You're bleeding everywhere. Sure it didn't hit something you need?"

Guts was so accustomed to his clothes being wet with blood that he had not noticed that nearly the entire right side of his tunic was stained black-red with the liquid. He used his right hand to trail the wetness past his collarbone and up the side of his neck.

Blood drained from his face with dizzying swiftness, and it felt as though his stomach had vanished, leaving a void beneath his ribs. The world tilted again, and the fingers of his left hand dug furrows into the earth as he struggled to not be thrown off.

Beneath the calloused pads of his fingers, seared into the flesh of his neck was the hated character of the Brand of Sacrifice, a nightmare in and of itself that was only too real.

The burning ache of the brand ignited beneath his touch, and the fire in his blood grew to an inferno that blotted out all else. He felt his throat burn as bile rose, and he hunched over as he retched until he thought that he would turn inside out. He barely heard the alarmed cries of the men around him, barely felt that hand touch his shoulder once more as one word echoed again and again through his mind.

…_Femto…_

* * *

**To Be Continued… **

**

* * *

**

**A/N:** If you didn't know, Puck is a small faerie (called an 'elf' in the manga) that joins up with Guts during the swordsman's journeysand battlesagainst the Godhand. Puck is one of my most favorites characters, so look him up. You won't be disappointed!

This would be a Time? What Time? story (or maybe Universe? What Universe?). I don't know how either the anime or manga ends, so the thing about Guts' (and Puck's) death is purely my psychotic mind at work.

Hope you enjoyed!


	2. When You Must Wake

**Title:** _What Must Be_

**Summary: **At the end of it all, Guts is 'killed' by Femto, but unexpectedly awakens among his companions from the Band of the Hawk. He wishes that his memories of the Godhand were merely a dream, but the Brand of Sacrifice remains.

**Rating:** PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it _is_ Berserk, after all.)

**Warnings:** Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.

**

* * *

**

-Chapter Two-

_**When You Must Wake**_

* * *

Tongues of fire licked greedily at his insides, flowing within his blood and wrapping around his bones like a sinuous serpent of searing flame. The brand burned as though it were the center of the blaze, but the rest of his skin was cold, so very cold, enough to make the deepest winter snows seem capable of scorching his flesh.

Liquid trickled down his face, over his neck and chest, but he could not breathe, and the copper scent of blood was thick in his nostrils, the syrupy liquid pooling in his throat, and he was drowning in an ocean of blood.

… _**You will not die here…**_

Words echoed in the burning shadows, caressing and tormenting his ears in turn, even as they tumbled and contradicted each other, and the voice changed from opponent/enemy/rival to friend/brother/ally and back again in the space of a single heartbeat.

Eyes staring down at him, dark eyes masked behind a scarlet helm that had once been silver, and a fanged mouth parted in a sneer.

… **His petty existence is beneath our notice…**

Dark eyes flickered to blue, but it was all a lie, wasn't it? Griffith was dead, and all that remained of him was Femto, who would soon be dead as well.

But Guts was dead, and Femto was the killer, and was it even possible for the dead to avenge themselves upon the living?

_Femto…_ The name was a growl, dark with the promise of revenge, and his throat was raw, his vocal cords feeling shredded, but he hadn't said anything, had he? How could he when he could not breathe past his own blood? _I'll kill you… You'll die, Femto, and then … _

… _then I can die, too…_

Hands, upon his shoulders, touching his face, and those eyes, the eyes of the being that had robbed him of everything, were staring into his own, a distant voice calling, and he thrashed to escape, the brand burning as a constant reminder, and he fought as a desperate animal fights, remembering a time almost beyond memory, and another man, with hands that held him down and dug into his flesh…

_Don't touch me!_

But more hands came, and the faces of the dead came with them to hover over him, voices that had not spoken in years calling, and their calls burned his ears, dark cries of damnation even as their hands gripped and held and bruised and cut into his skin, releasing the fire of his blood onto his flesh, but the flames of the brand merely burned hotter, his breath rattling in his lungs, and he _could not escape._

_DON'T TOUCH ME!_

… then the hands were gone, but he still could not move, and there was a feeling of something cool against the scorching heat of the mark upon his neck, as light as the flutter of an elf's wings, and he thought he could see Puck leaning over his neck, and the elf's small hands were upon his jaw, growing unreasonably larger, prying his teeth apart.

He gagged as liquid, something bitter and gritty, poured over his tongue, and he coughed and sputtered and gasped for breath as the noxious taste lingered in his throat, but the welcomed chill was already flowing through his veins, damping the flames, and a blessed numbness was spreading through his body, chasing away the ever-present pain.

He was finally able to drift into an empty grayness where none of his demons could follow…

* * *

"… never seen such… _brute!_ … unbelievable!"

Footsteps shuffled faintly somewhere near him, and several light clinks, like someone rummaging through many small items of glass and metal, came from further away. Muted grumbles followed, in a voice he had never heard, saying something about 'charge _double_' and 'this fracas.' "… it for now. What of my pay?"

Another voice replied, this one familiar, higher in pitch than the other, and sounding much friendlier, but his hazy thoughts were sluggish and not at all inclined to delve for a memory that would uncover a face or name. "The commander will see to it, I'm sure."

"He promised a horse for me as well. I _do_ have other places to be, you know." The stranger's voice took on an annoying, petulant, huffy note that rankled Guts even in this gray place between sleep and consciousness.

"You'll have to speak to the commander about that. He might want you to remain a little while, yet. Your services have been invaluable."

"Hmph. Well, I'll still need to speak with him."

"I'll have one of the men show you to him. This way…"

A wash of gray, and an undetermined amount of time passed before he felt anything beyond that welcomed numbness, but his first call back toward consciousness was a dull stinging on the side of his neck, a throbbing in his skull, and a bone-deep ache in his wrists and arms. He was warm, but not uncomfortably so, and his shoulders, face and neck even felt chilled, but he either did not want to move or could not move; his body lay heavy and unresponsive.

He was warm, he learned with the slow, dull wit of one still lightly grasped by sleep, because he was on a sleeping pallet or bed of some sort, and covered with something heavy enough to count as three or four blankets… or furs, or rugs, or what-have-you. He had used them all at one time or another. There was the muted crackling of a fire, and the soft steps of someone moving about several yards away.

His eyes slid open, focusing drowsily on a shadow-smothered ceiling crossed by heavy wooden rafters highlighted with the reddish light of a dying fire. The red tint was slowly fading away into gold, and the rasping sound of logs being added to a fire attested to the fact that someone was stoking the flames. The musky scent of smoke permeated the air, as well as the slightly less overbearing scents of sweat and something that smelled bitterly of herbs.

A bit of effort, and he managed to tilt his head toward the source of the light –he _was_ on a bed, as it turned out, — and his eyes fell upon a shadowy, slender figure highlighted by firelight. A woman, he was certain, but she was clad in the nondescript clothes of one of the lower class, her hair tucked beneath a worn scarf, and he knew that he had never seen her before.

A peasant woman tending the fire in a large room complete with fireplace… a large room that belonged to one so well-off as to be able to afford the multiple rugs upon the floor and the wood for the fire and a bed… That added up to a castle of at least a minor noble as surely as one and one added to make two.

But… he had died, hadn't he?

… _images of Judeau and Gaston leaning over him, matching expressions of concern on their faces…_

… _the searing pain of the brand burning against his neck…_

A jolt of adrenaline brought him to full awareness, and he realized with a lurch in the pit of his stomach that he could not move because there was something wrapped tight around his wrists and _his hands were bound to the bed._

His arms were by his side, hidden beneath the blankets, but he knew the feeling of restraints, and he understood with brutal clarity the source of the ache in his limbs that had helped bring him to awareness.

He must have made some sort of noise –a growl or snarl, most likely— because the woman had whirled around with the air of a rabbit discovering the presence of an extremely ill-tempered wolf behind it. The chunk of firewood she had been holding beneath one arm clattered against the rug-covered stones with a muted _ba-clunk_.

And, like a rabbit, she emitted the smallest of noises before bolting for escape, hitching her skirts away from her feet and fleeing to a heavy, wooden door that Guts had not noticed and wrenching the portal open before disappearing.

Guts let out a bellow of sheer fury. "_Get back here!_"

He forced his upper body as far upright as his pinned wrists would allow, his legs tensing uselessly with the movement, his head spinning as his fury drove him on, sending the blankets sliding down his bare chest as he strained his arms until whatever had been used to bind him creaked with the strain.

"Guts!"

A young boy sped into the room with as much alacrity as the woman had shown in exiting. A flash of blond hair and bright blue eyes startled Guts enough to ease his struggles. The boy eased closer to the bed, moving as though he were approaching a wild animal, slowly and with no sudden movements. "Guts?"

The swordsman abruptly slumped back against the bed, dark, cruel laughter bubbling in his chest and bursting past his lips like the tainted, bloody froth coughed up by men dying of chest wounds. Guts' eyes roved over the petite form, noting the knife on the boy's hip and the familiar, wide blue eyes. There was even a small scar just beneath the boy's jaw line, a scar that Guts remembered seeing the boy receive in a skirmish against an opposing mercenary force.

"And here I thought he was just going to kill me," Guts said at last, those dark chuckles still squirming in his chest. His eyes rolled toward the shadow-shrouded ceiling. "What's wrong, Femto? Death not good enough for this _petty existence_?"

"Guts…?" A few more timid steps closer, and the boy leaned into his field of vision, looking distressed and pale. "Can you hear me?"

The swordsman smirked. "Of course not, idiot. You're dead. How'm I s'posed to hear it when a dead person talks?"

"_Dead?_" The thing-that-looked-like-but-could-not-possibly-be-Rickert paled until his golden-blond hair seemed darker than bronze. "I—But I'm _not!_ Guts, it's _me_!"

Guts ignored the phantom, looking past the rafters and shadows above him, imagining that he could see the crimson-armored demon looming overhead, amused by the show. "You know, Femto, if you wanted this to be realistic, then you should've had him untie me by now. You're slipping."

What was this? A hallucination, a dream, or some demon-magic hoodoo to push him over the edge? Femto was cruel, but Guts had never fancied him as the cat-playing-with-an-injured-mouse type. Even Griffith in his darkest moments toyed only briefly with his prey. Nothing so drawn out as this farce appeared to be.

_What are you expecting, Femto? Me to break down and _cry

Another voice intruded from the direction of the door. "Sir? Is he awake?"

Rickert disappeared from Guts' sight, and the swordsman could hear a weary sigh. "Awake, yes. Lucid, though…"

"… Do you want me to fetch Phemlin?"

"No. I… He's finally _awake_, so I don't think we should drug him again. Keep an eye on him, and I'll sent a couple others up in case he gets out of hand."

"Yes, sir."

Footsteps retreating and fading, and a strange-yet-familiar presence lurking within the room, but Guts kept his gaze trained on the ceiling, steadfastly ignoring the ghosts from his past, losing himself in the mottled shadows.

_Death is supposed to end everything. Couldn't even kill me right, could you, Femto?_

_And here I was looking forward to it._

* * *

He dozed at some point, because the next time he opened his eyes the fire had died down to red embers, and there must have been a small window-slit somewhere behind him because gray light filtered into the room, softening the sharp shadows of the night before.

Turning his head, Guts saw that the unseen guard from the previous night was gone, and in his place stood the Rickert phantom, leaning against the wall beside the door, blue eyes watching Guts' every move with an intent concentration that was out of character for the boy.

Guts raised one eyebrow. "You gonna' untie me this time?"

The boy shook his head slightly, not in denial but more in worry. "Do you still think that I'm dead?"

Guts sneered. "I saw you die. All of you, torn to shreds, while _he_ made me watch."

The ghost bit his lip, and one pale hand crept to the handle of the knife at his waist. The blade hissed as it was drawn from the sheath, and the boy slowly made his way toward the bed. Guts' eyes locked onto the glinting steel, and his entire body tensed as he watched its approach.

"If I'm dead, that would make me a ghost, right?"

Sunlight dancing along the edge of the blade…

"So, I shouldn't be able to…"

Heartbeat thundering in his ears, growl vibrating in his throat, and the bindings upon his arms creaked as he strained against them, his instincts screaming, and he thought that perhaps this was something born from Femto's maddened mind.

The knife bit into flesh…

"…bleed, right?"

…and Guts felt the scalding drops of Rickert's blood pattering onto the bare skin of his upper arm.

The man known as the Black Swordsman shuddered, staring the crimson drops trickling between the boy's clenched fingers, looking at the stain upon the bright metal of the knife, watching the pain hiding at the back of the blue eyes.

"So… this would mean that I'm _not_ dead, right?"

_Drip._

"Tell me, then. Who am I?"

The burning hot drops pooled and slid down the outside of his arm, tingling unpleasantly, and Guts managed a hoarse answer. "… Rickert."

_This can't be…It can't be real…_

"And who are you?"

_Drip._

"Guts."

_Can it?_

"Name the other four captains of the Hawks."

_Drip. Drip._

Slick blood sliding over his skin, faces of the dead looming in his mind…

He had never been weak of stomach. He had been covered in the blood of the dead and dying from the crown of his head to the toes of his boots and he had never so much as flinched, but this was different. His stomach flip-flopped in uneasiness, and he could _smell_ the blood, Rickert's blood, Rickert who was here, alive, and still staring at Guts with those pain-darkened eyes.

"_Rickert—_"

"Name them." The boy's expression was as grave as Guts had ever seen it… graver even than when the boy had learned that Guts was leaving the Hawks… but that hadn't happened, had it? Or it hadn't happened _yet_?

The brand tingled as a perpetual reminder of the sheer impossible nature of this conversation, but the blood was warm and sticky and _real,_ and those blue eyes were so familiar, the voice exactly as he remembered, and Guts shook his head and answered, his voice hoarse. "Judeau, Pippin, Corkus, Caska."

"And the commander?"

"… Griffith…"

Nodding shortly, some of the tension draining from the set of his shoulders, Rickert pushed up the blankets from the side of the bed, slicing neatly through a thick cord that seemed to be made of three ropes plaited together. Guts hand jerked upward at the sudden loss of tension.

The swordsman blinked momentarily at the ridiculously thick cord circling his wrist before his eyes focused further, settling upon the red-stained dagger that Rickert was extending toward him, hilt-first. He accepted it with the slow wariness of a man not quite sure of his own sanity.

Rickert must have read his expression, because he smiled apologetically, wearily. "Had to be sure," was all he said.

Guts scowled and rolled away to fumble after the cord still binding his other arm to the bed, making short work of it once he found it, and then he set to the task of getting the wickedly knotted ropes off of his wrists without severing an artery –a severe headache and unsteady hand were not recommended for when handling a sharp object,— but he found that several layers of cloth had been wrapped around his wrists before the ropes had been tied, sparing him any truly injurious rope burns… and now helping to spare him from an ugly cut.

Beneath the cloth, both his wrists sported spectacular bands of bruises that ranged from green to blue to violet, yet the ropes had not been tied any tighter than what could be considered 'snug.' Quickly, he took one of the scraps of cloth and wiped the cooling droplets off of his bicep and the red stain off the blade of the knife, and a glance at Rickert's clenched, bleeding fist prompted him to hand the other to the boy. Rickert nodded and made short work of tying the cloth over the ugly cut.

He returned the knife –Rickert had one hand extended pointedly— and glared at the bruises as though he could cow them into explaining exactly _what_ was going on.

"Rickert… What…?" He shook his head, feeling too many conflicting thoughts swirling inside his overfull skull.

_What happened? Where am I? What's going on? _

_What's wrong with me?_

_Am I really awake?_

…_Is this _real?

But Rickert was walking away. "Your things are in the corner by the fireplace. Go ahead and get dressed. I'll see about some food."

**

* * *

**

To Be Continued…


	3. What You Must Know

**Title:** _What Must Be_

**Summary: **At the end of it all, Guts is 'killed' by Femto, but unexpectedly awakens among his companions from the Band of the Hawk. He wishes that his memories of the Godhand were merely a dream, but the Brand of Sacrifice remains.

**Rating:** PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it _is_ Berserk, after all.)

**Warnings:** Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.

**

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-Chapter Three-

_**What You Must Know**_

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Perhaps it should be depressing, Guts thought to himself, that he had lived for nearly thirty years, and during the whole of those thirty years all of his earthly possessions consisted of the clothes (and weapons) carried on his person, one rucksack filled with necessities, and a sword.

He _knew_ that it should be depressing to think that there had been many years when he had not even had the rucksack.

Chill air brushed over bare skin as he knelt before the possessions in question, and he held up a well-worn under-tunic that his mind steadfastly refused to believe would fit over his broad frame.

He pulled it over his head and tugged it down. Perfect fit.

_Now my mind's playin' _more_ tricks on me. Damn, damn, and double damn this whole mess! And damn Femto, too!_

He shook his head and reached for the thick, leather breeches, making short work of sliding them on. A warmer over-tunic was found beneath the pants, and he wasted no time in donning that as well, feeling the chill creeping up out of the stone floor to slide insidiously through the soles of his feet and up his legs.

A leather jerkin, the ragged strip of cloth used to wrap his sword-hand, the familiar, thick belt and his old dagger…

Beside the rucksack sat the empty shell of his armor, looking like a strange sort of skeleton, and he hesitated only for a moment before reaching for it resolutely. Even if this _was_ a dream, he would bet whatever remained of his soul that a knife in the ribs would hurt just as badly here as in real life.

Then he spent the whole of a minute wondering where his bandolier of throwing knives had disappeared to before he cursed himself for crazed fool and wondered once more at his own sanity.

This could not be real. He had _died!_ He _remembered_ feeling his heart stop! Even if he had not felt that, a gut wound as severe as the one gifted to him by Femto-once-Griffith was not something that a human being could bounce back from without near-miraculous help.

But there was no scar, no pain… so sign at all that he had received such a wound. Indeed, there was a definite lack of scars: no claw-marks from the _inukami_ he had fought a month past, no puckered flesh over his ribs from in the castle dungeons where the hot iron poker had seared his skin… and he still had his right eye, and his left arm was as healthy and functional as it had ever been.

_But the Brand of Sacrifice…_

The mark was _still_ tingling, not quite painful but annoying enough, and how else would he have gotten that unless he had really survived the Eclipse?

_This can't be real!_

…a hand on his shoulder as he lay coughing up his own blood, faces long-dead watching him with worry, voices he had last heard raised in screams of betrayed agony now entreating him, calling his name… the pain of the bindings upon his wrists, the mark burning against his neck… bright blue eyes and scalding blood, drops of ruby pattering onto his skin… _shouldn't be able to bleed, right?_...

With his lips pulled back form his teeth in a silent snarl, he reached out blindly for the next item, possibly the metal gauntlet that had shielded his left arm in so many battles, but instead his fingers brushed against cold metal, and his arm shifted of its own accord, his hand settling around the pommel of something that was possibly more familiar to him than his own heartbeat.

He had noticed that his sword was against the wall beside the rest of his belongings, but he had not spent any length looking at its familiar shape, more concerned with getting dressed before his blood froze.

Lifting the blade from the floor with a dull scrape of metal against stone, he shifted his stance automatically to counter the immense weight of the weapon, and with his free hand he slid the leather harness off the greatsword, letting it fall limply to the floor.

His mind pondered over the oddity that this greatsword was as much a strain on his body as the dragonslayer sword had been, even despite the fact that the greatsword was half the dragonslayer's size and less than a third its weight.

And his heartbeat slowed, his frenzied thoughts settling, his frustration quieting as he gazed at the simple, elegant lines of a sword he had not held in nearly fifteen years, felt its steady, reassuring weight pulling at his arms and across his shoulders.

_Real,_ his mind whispered. _This is real._

A feral grin tugged at his lips, and he leaned the greatsword against the wall, grabbed the harness from the floor, and fastened the sheath securely over his armor.

_For now…_

The sword hissed as it slid home, its immense weight resting solidly against his back and, instead of bowing him beneath its weight, it somehow drew his head higher, straightened his spine, pulled his shoulders out of their distressed hunch.

…_for now, I will let it be real._

_And I'll see where it takes me._

* * *

It was not Rickert who brought food up to the room, but instead a servant maid. She laid the plate of meat and bread upon the bed, dropped a wineskin beside it, and bolted, much in the same fashion as her predecessor from the night before. Guts watched all this from the far corner of the room, wondering if the woman would faint should he sneeze unexpectedly.

Though extremely hungry, he ate only the smallest bite each of the bread and meat, and barely let the wine touch his tongue. He tested all for abnormal flavor, and then waited for several minutes. Once he deemed it safe enough, he filled his complaining stomach until it ceased its complaints.

He had finished the meal and set both the plate and the skin next to the hearth and was wondering if he could find his way out of the castle and to the courtyard without a guide when voices intruded from the hallway.

"… really… no need, I'm sure… leave now, I… What are you—_Let go of me!_"

A short knock, and the door opened to admit Rickert, followed closely by the resisting form of a portly, balding man clad in the simple clothes of the middle class and bearing a medium-sized leather satchel escorted by a man that Guts recognized from his Raiders. The stranger caught one look at the swordsman's conscious form and blanched to an unhealthy shade of white-green. The mercenary saw that Guts was awake and grinned broadly, saluting.

"Good to see you awake, Captain." The mercenary nodded to Rickert. "I'll be just outside if you need me, sir."

The soldier slipped back out the door and closed it firmly, despite the stranger's attempts to catch the door and pry it back open, his hands scrabbling uselessly against the door latch which refused to budge –due, Guts suspected, to a certain Raider soldier holding it firmly in place from outside.

A soft cough from Rickert had the strange man jumping like a startled squirrel and whirling to press his back against the door. He glared at Guts –who was busy examining a rather spectacular spread of bruising on the man's neck, taking in the man's altogether too nervous attitude— who returned the look with a mildly venomous look of his own. The stranger gulped, and Guts wondered if he imagined it when the stranger darted a look down at his unbound hands with an expression of near terror. "Y-you cannot keep me here like this! I never agreed to remain so long; I promised a diagnosis and treatment, and I delivered! I demand that you release me!"

"You've done admirably," was Rickert's polite, unimpressed reply, reminding Guts that no matter how innocent or naïve Rickert might seem, each member of the Hawks had a core of steel within them that had been tempered in the fires of war. The boy turned to Guts. "Guts, this is Phemlin Maer. We found him shortly after the last battle; he was staying in a nearby village, and lucky for us, he has some training as a physician. He agreed to lend us his help. I thought that maybe he should have one more look at you."

Guts digested that. "I've been sick, then?"

A loud, derisive "Hah!" came from the physician.

Rickert tilted his head in a sort of apologetic shrug. "You've been unconscious for over a week. Today is the ninth day."

Guts' stomach twisted in surprise. His hand rose almost of its own will to touch his neck, his fingers brushing against the band of soft cloth wrapped over the brand. Guts had no doubt that the mark was there, though. Rickert's eyes noted the movement, and the glint of worry in the blue eyes grew.

Guts allowed a small, humorless smile to cross his face. "So, doc… what's wrong with me?"

_And I will swallow my own sword if you somehow manage to get it right._

"Some fever of the brain, no doubt," was the stiff reply, but though the doctor was still facing the bed, his hands were busy behind his back, pulling on the latch. "Obviously some sort of dementia."

Guts smile widened into something wolfish. "You think I'm _insane_?"

The doctor gulped loudly. "I-I-…"

"Hah! Close, doctor. Very close." Guts chuckled darkly deep in his chest as the brand tingled upon his neck. "Rickert, give the man his pay and have one of my men escort him from the castle at the good doctor's convenience."

One watching might not have noticed the slight, relieved sag of the doctor's weakened knees, but Guts _was_ watching and took much grim amusement from the simple movement. Rickert spared Guts a glance before nodding in acquiescence and walked over to the door, rapping sharply on the wood. The door opened immediately and murmured words were exchanged while the doctor was all but plastering himself against the boy's back in his eagerness to leave the room.

Rickert stepped away from the doorframe, and the doctor was halfway out the door before Guts' call brought him up short, stiff and trembling like a frightened horse.

"Hey, doc, you might want to put something on those bruises. Bad thing for a doc to not be able to take care of himself, you know?"

The portly man all but ran from the room, Guts' dark smirk chasing him down the hallway like one of the hounds of hell.

Rickert closed the door again, leveling a curious glance at the older man, but Guts merely shook his head, the smirk still lingering upon his face.

"Rickert…" Guts waited until the young boy had fully met his gaze. "I want you to tell me what's happened. _Everything_, understand?"

The boy nodded, ever obliging. "How much do you remember?"

_Every day and every death and every scream… _

"Start with the battle," ordered the swordsman tersely.

"Well…" Rickert rubbed his bangs back from his forehead, looking thoughtful, "it took a while for the battle to end, an hour at least –we won, of course— and everyone headed back to camp as soon as Griffith gave the order to withdraw."

Rickert made an expansive gesture with his hands, blue eyes wide and somewhat disbelieving. "When they brought you in… talk about pandemonium! Your men were frantic; they're used to you being hacked to bits, but seeing you collapse without even being stabbed is a reason for real panic, I suppose. _I_ thought you had died, the way everyone was shouting, and all the captains came to see what the fuss was. Caska couldn't believe it… actually, _no one_ could believe it.

"And then Griffith came riding up, asking what was wrong. He took a look at you, and then took charge. He had you taken to your tent, sent all the captains back to their duties, questioned Judeau and a few of your men to see what was going on, and sent for the Hawk surgeon, all within about two minutes!

Rickert's eyes dimmed. "You were running a horrible fever for the first day, but the surgeon couldn't find anything abnormally wrong beyond the wound on your neck. It wouldn't stop bleeding." Rickert's eyes fastened on the side of Guts' neck. "Do you—"

"I know what it is," growled Guts. His tone clearly said that the subject was not open for discussion. Rickert nodded.

"We couldn't wake you up. Sometimes, you struggled and attacked anyone that came near, kept talking about ghosts and dying, and no one could calm you down. We tried to keep you still when it happened, but that only made things worse. Judeau had some medicine that helped cool that mark –it was almost always burning hot— but it only worked for a while before it had to be used again, and Corkus kept saying that you were cursed.

Guts simply could not restrain a loud snort at _that_. Rickert gave him an odd look.

"Your fever kept getting worse, and then it started to snow, and… well, you know what our tents are like in winter." A small, humorless smile appeared on Rickert's face. "Griffith negotiated with a local lord: shelter and supplies for the Hawks in return for subduing a small rebellion in one of the lord's villages. Griffith left myself and part of your Raiders here and took the rest of the Hawks on the campaign… that was two days ago.

"The lord is the one that pointed us toward Phemlin, but even he couldn't really do anything for you. The only medicine he gave you was sedatives, and _that_ was probably because—" Rickert broke off, and Guts watched a slight flush travel across the bridge of the boy's nose.

"Rickert?"

"Ah, nothing at all. Phemlin probably just didn't know anything else that would help. Griffith certainly made it worth his while for you to get better, so Phemlin really did his best, but…" The stream of words trickled to an uncertain halt, but Guts had clearly heard what the boy hadn't said.

He snorted. "So I _did_ give him the bruises."

"Well… that _was_ when we were only using _one_ rope…"

**

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To Be Continued…


	4. Those You Must Lead

**Title:** _What Must Be_

**Summary: **At the end of it all, Guts is 'killed' by Femto, but unexpectedly awakens among his companions from the Band of the Hawk. He wishes that his memories of the Godhand were merely a dream, but the Brand of Sacrifice remains.

**Rating:** PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it _is_ Berserk, after all.)

**Warnings:** Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.

**A/N:** Thanks go out to **_YANSLANA_** for her help in keeping Guts in character. Her advice was a huge help in pointing me in the right direction, and chapter two (now chapters two and three) has undergone _heavy_ revamping to try and stay true to Guts' current mentality.

Thanks for your help, Yanslana. I kept slipping from post-Eclipse Guts to pre-Eclipse Guts and I didn't even realize it. ;; Whoopsie! Hope the new chapters are better. Let me know, okay?

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If you read the previous chapters prior to 11-17-05, then you need to go back and reread chapters two and three to catch back up. This chapter is, essentially, chapter three reposted.**_**

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-Chapter Four-

_**Those You Must Lead**_

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"One-hundred fifty-two… one-hundred fifty-three…"

All humans had instincts. Most humans, however, had never learned to listen when said instincts tried to alert them to something, often resulting in embarrassing moments, crippling injuries or horrific deaths.

"…one-hundred fifty-four…"

Guts was not one of those humans. He _knew_ what that odd prickling along the back of his neck meant, and he had earned too many scars from not paying attention to it to ignore it now.

He paused a moment in the exercise, resting the tip of his broadsword lightly against the snow-covered stones that covered the ground in one of the smaller, side courtyards of the castle. He let out a long breath, clouds of steam curling sinuously into the air and fading, and he listened. He had made his way down to the courtyard before the sun had risen, seeking out a place to test his strength where people would not happen upon him. He had found this out-of-the-way courtyard after a few moments' search. The pristine snow covering the stones, free of boot prints, testified that, since it had not snowed the night before, the courtyard had not been entered in some time.

He raised his head, looking up at the brooding, gray sky, letting out a sigh that was almost half-growl. Lifting his sword once more, he held it perpendicular to the ground as though examining the blade, meeting his own gaze in the dully reflective surface, and then he twisted the blade just _so_, looking further into the reflection.

_There you are…_

"Kinda' early to be out spying on people, ain't it?"

There was a small 'eep!' like a startled mouse, and Guts turned to meet the wide, hazel eyes of the boy who was trying without success to blend into the blue shadows beneath an arch set in the castle wall. Guts' took in the well-made clothing, the clean, neatly-groomed hair, and the small, pale hands that bore no calluses from work.

_Noble_, his mind supplied brusquely, along with a small mental snort.

"What're you doing out here?" He swung his sword up to rest against his shoulder, and he noted how the child's wide eyes followed the blade with timid fascination.

_Younger than Rickert_, he thought to himself. _Eight years old, maybe? Nine?_

_A young noble-born…Does the lord have a son?_

He had yet to meet anyone in the castle beyond a few servants, one stableman, the one Raider from the previous day, and Rickert. He had yet to even catch sight of the lord of the castle, a man, according to Rickert, known as Brien. Seeking time to think, Guts had even avoided his own men, though they were probably just now rising, and he reminded himself to check on their supplies before the day was out.

"… do you _really_ fight with that?"

He blinked down at the child, who was now blushing furiously from venturing the timid query. "'Course. What else would I do with it?"

The child's mouth formed into an amazed 'oh.' "But it's _huge_. It's taller than _you_ are!"

The special emphasis on the word 'you' seemed to indicate that Guts' own size was something beyond the boy's ken.

But the boy was speaking again, sounding gleefully excited, like Corkus upon coming across an as-of-yet unexplored bar-and-brothel. "Are you _really_ a captain in the Band of the Hawk? I've heard so many stories!"

Guts snorted. "Don't you have somewhere else to be, kid?"

The child ducked his head, suddenly looking extremely guilty. "I wanted to come see," he said, as though that statement should explain everything.

Guts waited, one eyebrow arched.

The boy squirmed. "Father said not to… He said that I shouldn't hang around the soldiers so much…" Suddenly, the child shook his head furiously. "But father said that you'd be gone soon, and I wanted to see… I w-wanted to see if the st-stories were t-t-true…" The boy's lower-lip trembled. "Now N-nurse will be m-mad at m-me…"

_Okay, maybe a bit younger than eight. Six? _

… _aw, shit, don't you _dare _start crying, kid…_

Guts made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, trying not to look at the child's embarrassingly tear-bright eyes. "Knock it off. We ain't going nowhere until the rest of the Hawks get back, and that'll be nearly a week, maybe more."

The boy sniffled again, but this time as an attempt to bring the tears back under control. "R-really? But I heard F-father say… say that you-you'd be gone _d-days _b-b-before the B-band of the H-hawk could come b-back, and f-father's in charge, so he w-w-would kn-know…"

His brow creasing, Guts stared hard at the child, watching the boy rub at the corners of tear-reddened eyes. "Is that so…?" The sword swung down off of Gut's shoulder to ground its tip in the snow. Once more, the boy's eyes were caught and held by the movement, and he even ceased to sniffle. A smirk crept stealthily onto the swordsman's mouth. "… You like watching soldiers, don't you, kid?"

The boy blinked wide hazel eyes up at the swordsman, nodding uncertainly, still looking as though he expected a vengeful father –or perhaps worse, a worried nanny— to leap out of the shadows and spank him for his disobedience. "Uhn-huh."

"Think you can sit still while I finish this drill? Then I'll take you to meet some _real_ fighters."

A sharp gasp, and hazel eyes widened impossibly with delight. "_Really?_ W-will you even… I mean, maybe… let me… let me hold your sword? Just for a second?"

Guts chuckled darkly. "No chance. You'd be squished like a bug. Now step back." He raised his sword once more to the ready position, a grimly amused smirk still playing on his lips. "One-hundred fifty-five…"

* * *

"Captain!"

"Sir!"

"It's Captain Guts!"

Guts had expected that his men would be as friendly toward him as ever, perhaps a little relieved to see him hale, whole, and sane, but he soon found that he had vastly underestimated his Raiders.

With the small boy trailing at his heels like some upright form of terrier, Guts had strode into the main courtyard of the keep, making his way toward the squat, snow-draped building that could be nothing other than the barracks. A few early-rising soldiers were out in the snow in front of the building, sparring, and Guts recognized a handful of his Raiders in with the group.

It was one of the castle soldiers that spotted Guts and his shadow approaching from across the courtyard. The man, his eyes fastened on the boy, straightened abruptly with a loud call of "Young Lord Arlen!"

The child ducked back behind Guts' broad form, but heads were turning, and a couple of the Raiders let their swords drop into the snow in sheer surprise.

And then pandemonium made its grand appearance on the stage. The majority of the Raiders bolted toward their captain, broad grins on their faces, whooping loudly enough to wake the entire castle, but one enterprising fellow ran to the door of the barracks and pounded heavily on the wood.

"Get up, you lazy louts! Captain Guts is back!"

Cue muffled shouting from inside the building. The door was nearly torn from its hinges, and a tide of men in various states of disarray came piling through the portal, many still pulling on boots and shirts, some shirtless but with what appeared to be blankets wrapped around their shoulders.

Guts watched in dumbfounded bemusement as the wave of men bore down upon him, his muscles tensing as they neared, and suddenly he was in the middle of a sea of smiling, yelling, laughing men, shoulders jostling him, hands clapping him on the shoulders, calls echoing around the courtyard walls and ringing in his ears and blending until he could only catch phrases and words.

"_Gods, had us worried… Captain Guts! … Geeze, don't ever… weren't even _stabbed_, what in… finally awake… don't scare us like… better now, captain? … eight_ days_… never seen the commander so… Big Sis gonna' say… okay, captain? … Captain Guts, sir… Guts… Captain Guts… captain… captain!_"

His entire body tensed from the unwanted contact and the whirling kaleidoscope of sights and sound. He felt his hand itching to grasp for the handle of his sword, but he squashed that urge and instead settled for an earth-shattering bellow of "_All right, you dumb bastards, KNOCK IT OFF!_"

The roar clawed its way up the walls and into the open sky, startling a pair of jays into flight. Silence descended warily in the shout's wake, and Guts looked past his men, noting the trickle of castle soldiers still coming out of the barracks looking sleep-muddled and not a little flabbergasted.

Mannerisms that he had not used since before he had left the Hawks trickled slowly back, and his shoulders pulled back, a smirk growing on his face.

Guts shook his head. "Is this how the Hawks' Raiders behave under the hospitality of a nobleman? Were you raised in barnyards?"

A hearty chorus of '_yes_'s answered him, along with a raucous dose of laughter.

"Maybe I should have you transferred to stable duties, then," Guts threatened, receiving a round of groans and snickers for his efforts. "But we'll see about that later. There was a kid with me; you cattle didn't trample him, did you?"

Muted, doubtful mumbles followed, and the mercenaries as a whole looked toward their feet, but someone behind Guts called out, and the swordsman turned to see the child standing wide-eyed, staring up at the crowd of battle-scarred men with an expression of openmouthed awe on his round face.

Guts snorted a dark laugh. "So… Arlen, huh?" He turned and raised his voice. "All right, listen up. This is the son of the lord of this place. He wants to learn more about the Hawks, so keep an eye on him. Keep him out of trouble, but let him hang around, got it? If he gets so much as a bruise, it's your ass, clear?"

A loud chorus of "_Yes, sir!_" set the courtyard to echoing again, and Guts studiously ignored the thunderous looks creeping onto the faces of the castle guards, though whether the dark expressions were due to the noise or Guts' familiar treatment of a noble was unclear. In any case, Guts had more important things to worry over.

Guts glanced around at his men once more. "All right, I want everyone ready for sword drills in half an hour. Assemble here. Dismissed. Maer!"

A sandy-haired man pushed his way to the front of the crowd that was rapidly dispersing. "Yes, captain?"

Guts lowered his voice so that his words would not carry to his unwanted audience. "Orders for the men: be on guard, but do nothing suspicious. Go nowhere alone or unarmed. Keep the boy happy, but _safe._ No rough stuff. And send a guard for Rickert; he's probably somewhere in the castle. Make sure he and the kid get along nice."

Maer's eyes widened, and then narrowed, the cold steel of a soldier's spirit glinting in his eyes. "Trouble, sir?"

"We'll see." Guts' eyes flicked to soldiers still standing in front of the barracks, their eyes narrow in suspicion and dislike, and Maer did not miss the gesture.

"And the boy, sir?"

"Even I know what collateral is, Maer." Guts raised his voice abruptly, ending the tense, secret conversation. "And get those idiots to fish their swords out of the snow before they rust. If I see anything like that happen again, it's gonna' be latrine duty for the entire division for a month."

Maer saluted. "Yes, sir."

Guts snorted. "Get back to work."

"Sir." The mercenary turned smartly and strode away.

Guts watched as Maer trailed after the herd of thirty or so Raiders –and one noble born child— as they filed back into the barracks, a small something unfurling within his chest and growing into a fierce, possessive pride that he had not felt in years beyond years.

_These men… My Raiders…_

Responsibility had resumed its heavy perch atop his shoulders, but Guts found himself, without conscious thought, accepting the weight the way that he accepted the familiar weight of the great sword across his back, something to be borne, and accepted, and perhaps even appreciated.

_I will not fail again._

And he wondered briefly…

Was this what Griffith felt, this protective pride, when he looked at the Hawks?

_Griffith… _He scowled and shook his head. _I have to get through this… I have to see… _

… _I have to see whether the man I remember really existed…_

… _or if Femto lives in you, even now._

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him, and he turned to face the gangly, richly dressed, darkly scowling man who had emerged from one of the many doorways that led from the castle into the courtyard. The swordsman noted the man's narrow, hazel eyes… eyes that matched those of the young boy.

So this was the Lord Brien.

"So, _you_ are the infamous captain of those men." The inflection on the words 'those men' insinuated that perhaps the men in question were not fully human but maybe an intelligent form of hunting hound, useful but hardly worthy of bed space. "Is this how Griffith rouses his soldiers on campaign, having you and your rabble squeal until everyone wakes?"

Behind the first man was another, this one short and soft around the middle with squinty eyes, the crown of his head shiny and bare of hair. He nodded zealously in agreement with the nobleman's words. "Indeed! See how your hospitality is greeted, my lord? I told you that these commoners would be nothing but trouble!"

_Those 'commoners' get paid to be trouble, and they're damn good at it. _

Guts met the noblemen's simmering gazes, and then dipped his head slightly, not quite a bow, not quite a nod. "Sorry if they woke you. I'll tell 'em to keep it down 'til the Hawks come back."

The portly man huffed, wrinkling his nose. "_If_ they come back, you mean. That upstart soldier will get himself killed with his arrogance, and then you Hawks will be nothing more than unimportant rabble once more!"

Guts found himself smirking, and the fat man swallowed loudly, his eyes wide at the wolfish expression. "You could be right. Accidents happen, after all, on and off the battlefield."

Now the lord's hazel eyes were narrowed not with irritation but suspicion, and Guts shrugged. "If somethin' happens… mercs know how to roll with the punches, and they're pretty good about getting on their feet again and punching back. I'm not that worried."

The swordsman turned his head slightly to look over at the barracks, noting with approval that the boy had gone inside with the rest of the Raiders, and he hoped that Maer had sense enough to keep the runt out of anything explosive and away from any of the sharp, pointy tools of the Raiders' trade.

He was not worried about the boy's welfare, per se, just his capacity for mischief; he had told his men to keep the kid safe, which translated into something roughly along the lines of 'If he trips and skins his knees, I'll cut yours off… or make you wish I had,' so he knew that they would do their best, but he would be the first to admit that mercenaries did not make ideal child minders.

_Hope Maer gets Rickert down here soon. I'd trust _him_ with the kid more than anybody else right now._

He shook his head and nodded to the lord once more, ignoring the fat man's existence. "'scuse me. We're about to do drills."

He turned and strode toward the barracks, ignoring the insulted sputtering of the fat man and the heated gaze of the lord drilling into his spine, right between his shoulder blades.

_Actually, doesn't Gaston have a kid somewhere? This'd probably be easier if he were here… but he's probably taking care of the rest of the Raiders. Best place for him._

_Wonder how the campaign's goin…_

_The Raiders probably ended up in with Pippin's heavy cavalry. Heh. Hope the Breakers can keep up with 'em._

And when they came back…

_Hah! We'll see if _any _of them can keep up with _me.

**

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To Be Continued…

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—**_BONUS SCENE—_**

_The Captain, The Maid, and The Firewood_

_AKA Why Guts Was Not Practicing His Exercises With Wood Bound To His Sword_

* * *

"Shit!" The Captain of the Hawks' Raiders pulled his winter cloak even tighter around his shoulders, glaring blackly at the clouds of steam that appeared when he breathed even here, within the shelter of the castle proper. "Colder than a damned frozen corpse."

_Which is what I'm gonna' turn into if I don't get warm somehow._

His hobnail boots clicked against the bare stone floors, setting echoes running up and down the darkened corridor like little demons skittering in the shadows. Every now and then he passed small slits that passed as windows, but only the faintest of blue light came in from the outside; the sun had not risen yet, much like the majority of the castle's inhabitants, and Guts was doubting his own sanity for allowing his usual early-rising rituals to prod him out into such a hellishly cold world. Even clad in layers upon layers of clothing, the cold bit through to his skin like a particularly vicious serpent nipping after prey.

_Bet even the servants aren't up yet._

… which was, technically, a good thing. Guts preferred that he not be watched while he gauged his current strength, and servants were notorious for their wagging tongues. All he had to do was find the kitchens, which were, as a rule, located on the lowest level that was still above the dungeons.

Guts had learned over the years that the kitchens were the best places to find firewood, and he needed at least eight pieces and some rope to do his exercises properly.

He walked for what might have been fifteen minutes before he began to feel the slightest warmth. A few more strides, and he rounded a corner, seeing an open doorway that bled golden light out into the hall. He smirked.

He stepped through the archway, ducking his head slightly to avoid hitting it on the lower-than-average lintel. Large tables for food preparation stood out in the center of the floor, and various roots and tubers hung from the ceiling beams where the heat would keep them dry. The air smelled thickly of onions and meat and bread, making Guts' stomach attempt a mutinous grumble. One out of a trio of cooking-sized fireplaces was blazing merrily, a bent old woman sitting in a chair as near to the fire's warmth as she could get without becoming roasted.

Guts eased forward. Call him what you will, but he did not have any interest in waking one of the elderly from what appeared to be a very comfortable sleep, and besides, there was a huge pile of firewood, nearly up to his chest, a few short strides away. _Perfect._ He made his way over.

There was no real science to choosing wood beyond picking the pieces that had the least bulk but the most weight. More efficient that way, and it used less rope. It took him only a short minute before he had nine sections chosen and stowed away under his arm.

He turned to leave…

…and an onion pelted him in the jaw.

Guts paused, blinked, and wondered if that had really just happened. He glanced at the floor. A small, rather stringy onion lay next to his right boot, looking extremely miserable with its lot in life.

Something whistled close to his ear, and his free hand shot out to catch hold of…

…a carrot?

"Thief!"

Guts' eyes darted to the positively ancient-looking woman who now held a wrinkled apple ready in her hand, her arm drawn back for the throw.

Guts managed a highly confused "What?" before the woman, with pinpoint accuracy that belied her great age and rheumy eyes, conked him on the nose with the fruit.

"Stealing our wood! How dares you? I be tellin' the lord, I wills!"

Grabbing his stinging nose, Guts flinched and dropped the armload of wood with a clatter, making a massive effort to _not_ grab his sword. "Gods, you old bat, what the _hell_—"

_Smack!_ Potato.

"My li'l Johnny don't be goin's into the forest and working his hands raw for the likes o' yous to be stealin' our firewood! Git outta' here, ya' hear?"

_Crack!_ Onion, again.

"Shit, grandma, I ain't _stealin'_ nothin'!"

"Liar!"

_Whack!_ Radish.

Guts batted away more flying vegetables, wincing as a lucky shot caught him on his temple. "Ch! Fine, keep the damn wood, you crazy old hag. I—H-hey, put down that poker, I—Shit! Lady, what the hell, I—_Hey!_ I'm going, I'm _going!_ Cranky bitch, I oughta'—Ouch! Stop tha—OW! _I said I'm going!_"


	5. Traps You Must Avoid

**Title:** _What Must Be_

**Summary: **At the end of it all, Guts is 'killed' by Femto, but unexpectedly awakens among his companions from the Band of the Hawk. He wishes that his memories of the Godhand were merely a dream, but the Brand of Sacrifice remains.

**Rating:** PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it _is_ Berserk, after all.)

**Warnings:** Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.

**A/N:** I have not read the end of the manga, nor have I seen the end of the anime (though I'm getting there; my anime club is just going _really_ slow). Take any mentions of the happenings after the Eclipse with a grain of salt, and I'll see about faster updates.

**

* * *

**

-Chapter Five-

_**Traps You Must Avoid**_

* * *

The cloth was dirty from long wear, as was the small, slender hand that bore it, and there was a hint of rust-red showing through the once white bandage. Seated upon one of the many bunks lining the inside of the castle barracks, Guts tracked the hand's movements automatically, his own hands pausing in the repetitive motions of sharpening his dagger as his thoughts wandered. 

"…_shouldn't be able to bleed, right?"_

Rickert must have felt the weight of Guts' gaze, for he paused in showing young Arlen the correct way to grip the hilt of a practice sword (a small wooden model made for the boy by one of the Raiders) and turned toward Guts with a confused, questioning frown. Guts looked pointedly at the young mercenary's injured hand, one corner of his mouth twisting in a displeased frown. Rickert blinked, looked down at his bandaged palm, and smiled. He raised it and flexed the fingers in a show of 'It's nothing. I'm fine.'

Turning the tables, Rickert arched an eyebrow and sent a pointed look of his own toward the side of Guts' neck where the brand was still hidden beneath a light bandage. Guts sneered and shook his head in a show of 'Mind your own damn business' and returned to sharpening his dagger, pretending to not hear Rickert's soft giggle or see the amused grins of the handful of Raiders also in the room with them.

The barracks consisted of a single large building that contained a single large room filled with enough beds (and floor area left open for bedrolls) for slightly more than two-hundred men. The castle guards worked in shifts, meaning that there was never a time when all of the soldiers had to sleep, and it was through this system that nearly four-hundred men were able to live in a space meant for half their number. With the addition of forty-odd mercenaries to the living arrangements, things had become somewhat more crowded than intended, and that had led to some interesting, if quickly ended, confrontations between soldiers and mercenaries.

Days had passed since Guts' awakening, and tension was rising ever-higher within the castle. It was rare now that Guts spent more than a few minutes away from his fellow mercenaries, for he had even begun to sleep in the barracks with the Raiders –if 'sleep' was even the word for it, for he catnapped during the night and caught brief snatches of light, uneasy dozes during the day. Too often had he caught the tail-end of whispers among servants and castle soldiers that set his instincts on edge, and he found himself feeling as though a storm were building and he were waiting for lightning to strike.

In the open aisle between the rows of beds, Rickert had gone back to playing with Arlen, something that the young mercenary obviously enjoyed; there were few, if any, opportunities for Rickert to act like the boy that he really was, and Arlen seemed to be enjoying the attention, holding the small, wooden sword as though it were the greatest gift he had received in all of his short life.

_Damn lucky they didn't give the kid a _real_ sword. _For a while, Guts had half-expected it. He had made the boy's welfare one of his priorities; Arlen was Brien's only child, the sole heir, and quite a valuable person because of it.

"You hold it like this, see? Up near the hilt, or else you don't get as much leverage."

"Like this?"

"Right! Now try swingi—Ow! Not at _me!"_

Rumbles of amused laughter prowled around the dim room, and Rickert rubbed the new sore spot on his bicep while Arlen flushed a mortified scarlet. Guts snorted.

'_Course, that don't mean he can't do some damage._ The small scar across the bridge of his nose –along with a myriad of others received during various sword practices—twinged in sympathy.

From outside in the courtyard, the clash and clang of swords, muted as the sounds were, provided a harsh counterpoint to the dull rasp of the whetstone against the metal blade of his dagger. Guts found himself tracking the noise absently, wondering who was practicing with whom. The Raiders had occasionally treated themselves to practice bouts with the castle soldiers, but after Guts' orders several days past, the Raiders had kept more to themselves. Fighting was one of the few entertainments open to the mercenaries, confined as they were to the keep, and it was a necessary exercise as well. For a mercenary, fighting meant money and prestige, but more than that it meant survival, and the Raiders were among the best at their trade.

More than once Guts had wrestled with the urge to merely gather his things and leave. If the mercenaries could not look after themselves, then that was their own problem. Better dead than weak, wasn't that what his travels had taught him?

But… even so…

Even if it was all a dream, a hallucination crafted of demon magic by Femto, an attempt to push him past the bounds of sanity, to break him… How many times had he dwelt upon _should haves_ and _would haves_ and _could haves_ and _if only, if only, if only…?_

Wasn't it worth the risk?

If it was a dream, then what was there to lose?

And if it was real…

If somehow, beyond reason or belief, there was some slight chance that it was truly, honestly _real…_

He realized that the dull scraping sounds of the whetstone against the dagger blade had ceased once more, and he was receiving more than a few odd glances from his men at his obvious distraction. Irritation prickled in his chest, but then his heartbeat quickened, and it took him a moment to realize that the sounds from outside had changed, and now interspersed with the sounds of swords ringing against one another were the yells of angry men and cold laughter and cruel jeers, and he was rising to his feet even as the barrack door crashed open and one of his Raiders was silhouetted in the doorway.

"Captain!"

That one word was all that the Raider was able to get out before Guts was brushing past him, tossing a curt 'Rickert, stay here!' over his shoulder, one hand already upon the hilt of his sword, and the other Raiders were hot on his heels, pouring out into the biting winter air a mere moment behind him.

He found himself in the midst of a chaotic swirl of Raiders and soldiers, many with naked weapons in hand, and all of the action centered around two men standing at the heart of the crowd, swords drawn. A handful of servants stood in various doorways ringing the courtyard, watching the confrontation with the air of circling jackals.

Guts' memory provided identities for each of the pair within a heartbeat. One was a Raider, one of the younger men to be found in the division, nicknamed Tils (short for Talsirom), the ninth son of a minor noble from somewhere up north, some obscure holding that Guts had never previously heard of. The other was called Darid, a whip-thin man with a hatchet nose and narrow eyes who was the captain of the castle guard; Guts had never encountered the man face-to-face and had never felt the slightest desire to rectify that fact.

Darid was smirking openly, the tip of his blade stained crimson, and Tils was holding onto his sword only through sheer force of will, for his right shoulder was weeping dark liquid down the side of his tunic and onto the snow.

"Pathetic!" the captain was saying, teeth bared in a wolfish grin. "Is that all that the _legendary_ Band of the Hawk has to show?"

"Band of the Pups, more like!" came another jeering voice from the other side of the crowd, answered by a loud wave of raucous laughter. "Can your sick ickle captain even lift a sword?"

Raiders joined in the verbal duel. "Watch your tongue 'fore we cut it outta' ya!"

"Pampered castle pets! You're nothing but the nobles' lapdogs!"

Darid laughed derisively. "Dogs, are we? We aren't the ones that squat like beasts in the wilderness waiting for new battles!"

Tils smiled fiercely, shifting into a more secure stance and bringing his sword to bear with an effort. "No, you just hide inside your castle walls praying that your master doesn't call you out of your kennel!"

Darid's smirk morphed into something darker, and he drew his sword back as though for another strike, but Guts was pushing his way through the last of the crowd, his sword clearing its harness with a deadly hiss.

A wrench of muscles, a flash of sunlight on polished metal, and the shriek of tortured steel, and the tip of the captain's severed sword clattered to a halt upon the snow-streaked stones.

Heavy silence fell upon the assembly with all the quiet subtlety of a hammer striking an anvil.

Darid gaped at the empty air where the tip of his sword had once been, and then his gaze traveled to the tip of Guts' greatsword, tracing up the weapon's immense length until his gaze came to rest upon Guts himself.

"Who… the hell…"

Guts smiled darkly. "I'm their _'sick ickle captain.'"_

A quick ripple of suppressed laughter traveled through the assembled Raiders, laughter that held a grimly gleeful undertone of '_oh, you are in _such_ deep shit.'_ The soldiers either looked mutinous or alarmed… and in some cases, a mixture of both.

"Raiders, stand down or be put down." There was a quick chorus of metallic hisses as blades were slid back into sheathes. Guts turned his head slightly to one side, keeping his eyes locked on the castle captain. "What's it lookin' like, Tils?"

The wounded man grunted. "Flesh wound, sir. Didn't even get to the bone."

"Good. Maer."

There was a shift in the crowd behind him, followed by a quick reply. "Here, sir."

"You've just been elected as medic. Get him inside and help dress that cut."

"Yes, sir." There was the sound of more movement and the shuffling of footsteps, and Guts tracked the pair of men out of the corner of his eye as they made their way back into the barracks, and then he focused his gaze once more upon the captain who seemed to be regaining some slight bit of his nerve.

"If you wanted a _real_ fight," Guts informed the captain grimly, "you should've sent a man to find me. Real stupid of you, tryin' to start a brawl with us while we're under your hospitality. Good way to get us in your lord's bad graces, isn't it?"

"You talk like you were ever in his _good_ graces," spat the older man spitefully.

Guts acknowledged the point with the barest amused quirk of his lips. "Nothin' much I can do about that. But I'll do you a favor." In an abrupt motion that had nearly every man in the crowd jerking in surprise, he swung his sword high and slid it back into its harness in a single motion. "I'm not goin' to give you a scar to match the one you just gave Tils, as much as I hate to say it." He leaned nearer the other man, lowering his voice. "Not sayin' that I'll pass on the opportunity a second time."

He turned his back to the fuming captain in a show of dismissal and returned to the barracks, avoiding the gaze of a wide-eyed Arlen, his mind stewing over the development, and more than one of the Raiders pressed close about him once they were inside, demanding to know why they hadn't been allowed to fight back, why he hadn't cut the captain down.

Guts' answer was simple, and it cut through the chatter more effectively than any sword ever cut through flesh.

"Because that's what they wanted."

There were new orders for the Raiders after that. Go nowhere in a group of less than five. Each man tends to his own horse; no more relying on the castle grooms. Accept no food from the castle kitchens; eat only rations provided by the Band of the Hawk. Sleep in shifts, and ignore any invitation to confrontation. Any blood shed by the Raiders could be seen as an acceptable reason for the lord to evict them from the castle, and once out of the castle they would be vulnerable to attack.

Even this early in the Hawks' long career of legendary campaigns, Griffith had acquired an impressive list of enemies, and there was an equally impressive list of bounties that those enemies were willing to pay if it meant seeing the destruction of the Hawks in general or Griffith in particular.

Guts wondered if there was a bounty for _his_ life as well. The Raiders' infamy as the Hawks' shock troops, the division that could survive the impossible and defeat the undefeatable, made them –and their leader—prime targets.

Such a small keep as that of Lord Brien would profit enormously from one of those bounties.

Guts expected that the only thing that was keeping him and his men safe within the castle was the threat of the Hawks' impending return. Forty-three mercenaries were no sort of threat for four-hundred men, but an entire mercenary company, especially one so infamous as the Band of the Hawk, (enraged at the loss of a group of their companions, no less) was a different matter entirely.

_They want us to leave. They want a reason to get us out of the castle and into the wilds._

An attack upon the frozen roadways could be blamed on brigands or bandits or some such, and though the Hawks would never believe such a ridiculous story, there would be precious little in their power to do about it.

Guts sneered. _Politics. Ch._

* * *

Three more days passed. While the soldiers of the castle made no more overt attempts to provoke a fight, Guts was oftentimes hard-pressed to avoid Darid; the captain of the castle guard seemed to have taken it upon himself to see that the Raiders broke the peace, often jeering and insulting them during practice, and once even by attempting to corner another of the men into a fight. Each time, either Guts or one of the Raiders would step in and prevent the situation from escalating, but the man who had lived as the Black Swordsman was not known for his restraint, and the situation was testing the last shreds of his patience. 

Clouds of powdery snow lifted into the air in hazy swirls, raised by the disturbed currents of air that came in the wake of the greatsword's broad arcs. This younger body, already weaker than his older self and less able to perform up to his higher standards, was also out of practice, having gone over a week battling a fever, not once lifting a sword or even walking in that time. It was not in his nature to accept anything from himself but his absolute best, and he would not be satisfied until he was back in top form, and he had been working endlessly ever since he had awoken to achieve just that.

Guts squinted against the midday snow-glare and braced himself upon the slippery stones, cold air burning in his throat, and his mind conjured an imaginary opponent for him to face, but his practice faltered periodically when the shade's blurry visage would morph into other, well-known faces: Gambino, Femto, Griffith… Nosferatu Zodd.

A feral grin crossed Guts' face at the last, accepting the conjured challenger, and he threw himself forward. A swift, overhead cut, straight down toward the demon's head…

_Zodd… I could beat him._

… parried by the demon's sword. Retreat a pace, adjust his weight and his grip on the pommel. Lunge forward, swiping from the side, beneath the demon's guard…

_I know now._

A shallow wound across the demon's ribs, and suddenly a monster stood where there was once a man.

_Cut off the head._

Dodge the lashing tail and the swiping claws. A swift strike at the neck, evaded.

_Pierce the heart._

Crouching low, drawing the greatsword near to his body, coiling like a serpent…

The rasp of his boots upon wet stone, cold air lashing his face as he lunged, muscles down his back and legs burning with strain as he extended, the greatsword burying itself in the demon's ribs.

_The only way…_

Ripping the sword away, flinging a spray of black blood through the air. Twisting his torso in a punishing arc, drawing the blade back before wrenching it forward in a scything blow through the monster's neck.

… _only way to kill 'em._

_Right, Femto?_

"Captain Guts!"

Bloodied fur and black wings melted away into clouds of snow-mist, and Guts found himself facing one of his Raiders, a stocky man in his mid-twenties grinning from ear to ear. A frown creasing his forehead, Guts swung his sword over his shoulder and sheathed it in one easy motion. His thoughts meandered back to the present, bringing with them a name to match to the man.

"Beddyr? What in the world…?"

The man's grin only seemed to stretch wider. "A messenger just came in, sir. An armed force has been spotted on the nearby roads, a band of mercenaries bearing blue and white banners!"

Guts stared at the flushed face of the mercenary for a long moment before he came back to himself.

"Does the lord know?" he demanded.

Beddyr's smile vanished, replaced by the solemn mask of a soldier. "Not yet. The messenger's just now gone into the keep."

"How far away?"

"Less than a day's ride."

"Did the messenger say which way? Which road?"

"The same road we came on, sir. Any of the men could find their way there."

Guts' mind flashed through scenarios, and more than anything he knew that if ever there was a time that Brien would risk breaking the nobles' rules of hospitality, now was that time.

"Prep the horses, and have an extra horse saddled for Arlen. If he's not with the men, send Rickert for him. We're leavin' within the next half-hour, and we're goin' out in armor. Anyone objects, don't you _dare_ take 'no' for an answer!"

"Yes, sir!" The man was off like an arrow from a bow, racing toward the barracks, and Guts was off to make his own arrangements.

The castle was protected by a standard drawbridge as well as a metal portcullis. The main gate led to the main road of the surrounding village, and the village was surrounded by intermittent sections of a small, chest-high stone wall that would do little more than give invaders a brief pause (most likely only while said invaders wondered why in the hells anyone would waste good stone on such a useless defensive measure).

Already clad in his armor (as was his daily practice), Guts took the steps leading to the top of the keep's outer wall two at a time, and upon reaching the top he was confronted by a pair of soldiers watching with suspicion as the mercenaries below scuttled between the barracks and the stables like a nest of disturbed ants.

His knuckles ached after hitting each of the soldiers' skulls, but he expected that the pair would be in far more pain when they awoke in several hours. He made his way to the gatehouse at a lope, a feral smirk tugging at his lips.

* * *

"Guts!" Rickert was already mounted by the time Guts returned to the courtyard. The young blond mercenary nudged his mount through the throng of horses and men, his blue eyes wide, and behind him came an excitedly grinning Arlen mounted upon a pale pony. "Guts, what's going on?" 

Guts smirked. "Can't you tell? We're leavin'."

Rickert frowned. "_Guts…"_

"Are we going on a trip?" asked Arlen, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "An adventure?"

One of the Raiders led over a chestnut gelding bearing Guts' tack and saddlebags, and the swordsman took the reins with a quick nod. "Yeah, kid, an adventure. Just stay close to Rickert."

The Raiders were nothing if not efficient. Every man Guts could see was armed and clad in full armor, their horses prepped for a long ride, and a thick circle of mercenaries surrounded Guts, Rickert, and Arlen at all times. Soldiers ringed the group with hands on their weapons, unsure of what to do but certain that the lord would be displeased with the turn of events. The courtyard rang with the sound of hooves upon stone, the jingle of tack, voices of men, and the air was filled with jets of steam as the horses snorted and neighed.

Yet a single voice managed to rise above it all in a bellow of fury that echoed off the walls.

"_What is the meaning of this?"_

Rickert winced, his horse shying. "Oh, boy."

Arlen hunkered low in his saddle, looking a far cry from his previous bright-eyed self.

Guts wove his way through the press of men and horses, leading his gelding along behind him, a small smile tugging at his lips as he caught sight of the apoplectic face of the castle's liege lord and the plump, berry-red face of his overweight toady as the pair stood on the castle steps.

"Lord Brien." Guts did not even bother with a bow.

"Y-you…" Hazel eyes flashed with fury, thin, pale lips pressed tightly together, and the nobleman seemed to grope for words. He obviously did not dare order his men to attack while his son was at the heart of the Raiders. "What… Who do you think… Y-you _vagabond! _Do you think you will get away with this?"

"We're just leavin' a bit early. Don't want to overstay our welcome, is all. Little Arlen's comin' part of the way to see us off."

"Kidnapping!" cried the fat man in a strained voice, his bald pate shiny with nervous sweat, seemingly unable to get out more than that single word.

"Oh, we'll let him head back at the edge of the village. But I wouldn't try followin' us until he's on his way back. You don't want us to slip up and do somethin' _stupid."_

The lord's teeth were bared in a snarl. _"You… You dare threaten—"_

"You'll find I _dare_ a lot of stuff." Guts' eyes roved over the crowds of castle soldiers ringing the group of mercenaries. "I even _dared_ to fix your gates, just so we wouldn't be delayed." He smiled. "I'll even _dare_ ask you just how much bounty you were offered for our heads."

The lord's eyes widened. "H-how—?"

"Here's some free advice." Guts' smile widened wolfishly. "However much it was, it ain't enough for you to tangle with the Hawks."

**

* * *

**

To Be Continued…


	6. When You Must Meet

**Title:** _What Must Be_

**Chapter Summary: **Guts and the Raiders wait at the edge of the village while those within the castle plot their demise. Arlen is their only surety of safety, but there are those who care more for money and blood than a child's life.

**Rating:** PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it _is_ Berserk, after all.)

**Warnings:** Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.

**A/N 1:** I have finished the anime, thanks to my esteemed aunts and uncles who donated enough money for me to buy the DVDs. **_:big smile and loud 'squee' inserted here:_** So now this story will largely be based on the anime as I haven't read past the ninth manga (I'm one of those psychotic people who refuses to read online translations or scanlations or whatever they're called). I will be borrowing bits from the manga I _have_ read, though (i.e. Guts' rape, Puck, etc.) so just read with a grain of salt, please.

**A/N 2: **I'm upset that there isn't more Berserk fanfiction to be found on the web. Fanfiction . net, from what I can see, has the largest collection of any site. Can anyone recommend a place where I can find some more quality Berserk fanfiction?

**

* * *

**

-Chapter Six-

**_When You Must Meet_**

* * *

Guts thought in straight lines. If he liked or disliked something, he acted accordingly. He fought his enemies. He looked after his allies. He was not a man who engaged in –or enjoyed, or understood, really—the art of subterfuge. He had left such as that to Griffith or Caska, or Judeau, even. It was the main reason he had so disliked his time spent in the Midland court; he could not get his head around the idea of people who lived smiling at those they hated and flattering those they wished dead. If someone ever openly expressed a desire to kill him, Guts struck first. Enemies: destroy. Allies: defend. Straight lines. 

This mindset left him sadly inexperienced when it came time to deal with those skilled in artifice. Had anyone else been there to take command, they undoubtedly would have handled the situation with more finesse than Guts showed in his heavy-handed solution. _They_ would have talked their way out of a fight altogether. _They _would have found a way to stay at the castle. _They_ would have managed to avoid that human-shaped piece of horse shit Darid.

Most importantly, _they_ would not have allowed themselves to remain huddled at the edge of the village like so many rabbits cowering in their burrows.

The winter light was beginning to dim to silver-gray, the silent houses at the village edge (their inhabitants barricading themselves inside away from the armored strangers lurking outdoors) lending blunt puzzle pieces of silver, gray, blue and black to the landscape. Nearly the reach of a well-shot arrow beyond the village's outer wall there were the first scraggly specimens of the forest trees, jagged and dark against the pale snow. The village road (a line of dark, muddy ruts in the ground) stretched across this open area and pressed into the shadowy woodland, soon disappearing from sight behind the screen of trees.

The Raiders, still mounted, stood silently on the verge the open ground beyond the broken wall that ran along the village edge. Lonely winds twined their way between the simple village huts, a background moan punctuated only by the jingling of harness and the snorts and shuffles of restless horses. There had been mutters earlier (the most popular of which being _"Damn cold out here"_ and_ "How long're we gonna' sit around like this?"_), but they had died out hours past as the stillness that preceded battle permeated the air.

It had been a tense ride down from the keep. The Raiders had left the castle's main gate and wound their way at a brisk trot through the village by way of the main road, glares of the castle occupants drilling into their backs and villagers scattering before them and dogs yapping at their passing. The mercenaries, without needing an order, had hastened to escape arrow-range of the castle, for there were few sensations as unnerving as the feeling that someone is taking aim at one's spine.

Arlen had balked at accompanying the Raiders after witnessing his father's anger firsthand, but the mercenaries had not taken 'no' for an answer, and now the boy sat unhappily atop his fidgeting pony at the heart of the Raiders, drawing in quick, shuddering breaths as little boys were apt to do when fighting tears. Rickert had stayed by the young noble's side, looking uncomfortable with the situation in general but unwilling to leave the upset boy alone in the midst of edgy mercenaries.

Clad in full armor from his helmet to his boots, fully prepared for a brawl, Guts remained mounted several paces separate from the group, closest to the village and its keep, his attention focused on the castle rising above the uneven outlines of the village roofs. Small sparks of light flickered intermittently atop the lofty, distant walls, the flicker of dying sunlight on armor and weapons as men hurried along the walls like silver ants scurrying about a disturbed nest.

Hours had passed since the Raiders' hasty exit from the keep. The lord had had ample time to prepare an attack party. The question was whether his anger or his son weighed more in Lord Brien's mind.

Guts' hand rose to ghost over the leather-bound pommel of his sword, reassuring himself of its presence. _Only a matter of time… but who will come first?_

"_Less than a day's ride."_ The messenger bearing that hopeful news had arrived near midday, meaning that the Hawks had been that close when the messenger had set out for the castle. That in turn spawned the thought that the Hawks were several hours' worth nearer by the time the messenger had ever reached the castle, and now nearer still, for close to four hours had passed since the Raider's had left the keep.

Guts' ideal scenario was that the Hawks would soon return and with the added support they would be able to send the boy back to the keep and leave without any more commotion than they had already caused.

_Not that I'd object to a nice brawl, _—The thought of a bloody free-for-all actually sounded appealing after a week of doubt and confusion and that idiotic castle captain's jeers.—_ but I don't need to haul deadweight into it with me._

And wasn't _that_ a cheerful thought? A sheltered noble born child floundering in the midst of a violent bloodbath was not something that Guts wished to add to his rather impressive list of recurring nightmares.

The swordsman drew his cloak as closely around himself as he could without compromising his sword-arm, but it was little help against the biting chill of a winter evening, and the wind was not helping, sneaking its icy fingers through his clothes and raking its nails along his skin.

"Captain."

He turned at the call to find many of the Raiders focusing intently toward the barren tree line. Pulling his horse around, he moved nearer to the group. "What is it?"

One of the Raiders –the one who had spoken—raised his arm and pointed, his eyes narrowed into a squint as he fought to focus on the distant trees. "Something moving in the trees, sir. Near the road."

Guts scanned the tree line. The whole of the Raiders sat silently, some still keeping watch on the village but many now looking toward the forest. Wind whispered over the snowbound landscape, raising wisps of mist, and there was a definite flicker of movement between the distant gray and black tree-trunks.

_The Hawks…?_ Guts tried to focus better. If it _was_ the Hawks, he wondered why any of the Hawks would be among the trees rather than on the road, but Judeau's Scouts were sometimes sent ahead of the main body, and the Scouts were notorious for their skills in the wilds, often chosen for reconnaissance or to head small forest battles.

A dark shape bounded from the trees. The deer faltered upon finding itself exposed and turned to race along the tree line, soon disappearing back into the mottled shadows of the forest.

A murmur of disappointment rippled through the assembled men, and several chuckled at their own jumpiness. Guts let out a disgusted snort, turning back toward the village, his eyes catching on Arlen's hazel gaze. Guts found the remnants of his conscience smarting as he realized that the boy was still on the verge of tears and Rickert looked upset as well. _Shit._ He guided his horse over nearer to the boy's smaller pony.

Before Guts could speak, the boy sniffled and spoke haltingly through choked hiccups. "I h-hope Fa-F-Father l-locks you in-in th-the dun-d-dungeons!"

Rickert's eyes widened. "Arlen!"

"I d-do! I… I h-hate you!" Now the boy _was_ crying, and Guts' atrophied conscience was regaining its strength with startling speed, stomping on his stomach with unexpected force. The child's hazel eyes were narrowed, and even bright with tears they reminded Guts of the Lord Brien's eyes, hatred and resentful anger burning in their depths.

"You ain't the first, kid," came Guts' quiet reply, "And you won't be the last."

He kneed his horse in an abrupt turn, and it was sheer, blind luck that the movement took him out of the crossbow bolt's path, leaving it to graze his bicep instead of pierce his shoulder.

Rickert's startled yell of "Guts!" mingled with Arlen's frightened scream and men shouting and weapons being drawn, and more bolts were ripping through the air as Guts yanked his horse's head around in a tight turn, his greatsword clearing its sheath with a deadly metallic hiss.

Guts' first thought was that Brien's patience had given out and castle soldiers had been sent to capture or kill the mercenaries, but the riders pouring out of the alleys between the village houses could not number more than a hundred, and then a familiar, hated voice rose above the din of thundering hooves and yelling men and screaming horses, and Guts spotted an armor-clad Darid leading the charge, and Guts realized that Brien probably did not know about this sortie at all.

"Kill their captain! Don't let him escape! Forget the others; his head is worth more than all of them combined!"

_So there _is_ a bounty on my head after all._

Guts did not restrain the harsh bark of dark laughter that bubbled up in his chest, and he watched with a bloodthirsty smile as the riders thundered toward him over the twenty-something yards of open ground between him and the village, and he slammed the visor of his helmet down with an impatient motion.

"Move your asses!" he bellowed. "Head for the trees! Protect the kid!"

Raiders wrenched their horses around in punishing turns that nearly set the beasts on their sides, and the air was filled with the pounding of hooves as well as the chunks of snow and dirt kicked up by the animals' feet. Guts' horse snorted and shimmied beneath its rider as a trio of daring soldiers pulled ahead of their companions and arrowed straight for the Raider captain, and Guts' muscles tensed as he raised his blade, and…

_Don't think._

…sunlight on metal, brief resistance as sword meets sword, and then a clean sweep through armor and flesh that sends ruby spray across his vision and pattering upon virgin snow…

Ducking as a sword cleaves the air that had once held his head, and guiding his horse with his knees as he raises his sword once more. The greatsword stealing away the life of man and beast in one brutal stroke, sending a new rain of scarlet into the air, and a follow-through swipe cleaves the third man, pale and horrified, into two mutilated lumps of bloodied flesh.

There were more than a dozen men closing upon him now, and the Raiders were hanging back, unwilling to leave him, and he spat a curse, wrenching his horse around and forcing it after the retreating mercenaries. His mount settled into a swift gallop, and Guts held his mount back, keeping himself as rearguard, and flashbacks of another time, another road flew through his mind.

Ahead of him he could see one horse lagging slightly, carrying both its original rider and the slight form of Arlen, and Guts wondered it the boy's pony had fallen or if the Raider had doubted its ability to keep up with the headlong race that would soon have even the seasoned Raider horses laboring. Rickert was near the front of the widespread group, and there was a handful holding their horses back as well, bringing their mounts to either side and just ahead of Guts' own, but the trees were looming ahead, and the men at the front were pushing their horses in the slightest of turns, aiming for the road in the hopes of better footing.

A horse head appeared in the corner of his field of vision, and he turned, raising his sword just in time to block an overhead strike, and his arm wrenched the greatsword forward and back in a vicious swipe that separated the unfortunate rider from his legs and his horse in a burst of crimson, but another rider surged forward, crossbow leveled and ready, and Guts realized that the rider was purposefully outside of his sword's range and shifted his blade in preparation for an attempt to knock the bolt away—

The soldier's throat blossomed in an explosion of red around the arrow buried in his flesh, and the horse shied and pulled away from the chase as its rider became limp weight and tumbled from the saddle.

One of the Raiders let out a cry, not of fear or fury but of welcome, and Guts looked forward just in time to see a wave of familiar-yet-not men sweeping past Rickert and the Raiders, pennants of blue and white fluttering up and down the tree line, and more men were appearing from the trees to Guts' left and right, swords held ready. Several more bolts were released by the newcomers, whistling lethally through the air to pick off more of the pursuing soldiers, and Guts slowed his sweating horse to a canter and then a trot as the first line of men swept past, turning his horse back toward the battle with a fierce grin.

The castle soldiers had lost their confidence, many now turning tail with speed fueled by terror as they realized that their prey had been bolstered by several hundred displeased, battle-hardened mercenaries, but the Hawks hemmed in the soldiers on all sides, preventing escape, and Guts threw himself back into the battle with weeks' worth of anger and doubt and frustration burning in his mind.

_The Hawks…_

Men hailed him occasionally as he waded into the fray, and ghosts lingered at the edges of his eyes like restless demons come to drive him mad.

_They're here._

There were soldiers pressing around him on all sides, and everything was sweat and blood and steel and screams, muscles straining and eyes dilating and heartbeat thundering, blood afire, and his hands ached with the strength of his grip upon the greatsword, cold air burning his lungs and the chaos of battle battering his ears, but there were Hawks all around and _where was Griffith…? _

His sword swept soldiers out of his path like bloodied rag dolls, screams clawing at his ears, and warm liquid spattered his face, his arms, his hands, and he snarled as a lucky blade crept past his defense to leave a stinging gash upon his cheek. He retaliated and sent a broken body hurling to the unforgiving ground to fall further victim to the hooves of maddened horses.

_Focus!_

But where was—?

_Don't think._

And then needles of pain jabbed viciously into his neck, and he started so violently that his horse shied beneath him, pivoting on its hind legs and letting out a sharp cry, but Guts' eyes were scanning the battlefield, searching, wondering, hoping, dreading, and silver brighter than new-fallen snow shone in the sunlight, a helmet forged in the likeness of a hawk's visage showing prominently amidst the jumble of battered armor born by the other men.

"_I will get my own kingdom."_

Even in the midst of battle, the silver rider seemed to be scanning the assembled men as though in search of something, and a mere moment later Guts felt the heavy weight of that loved/loathed gaze settle fully upon him, and Guts was caught in a snare of sapphire eyes.

Time slowed.

"_You will fight for my cause… because you belong to me."_

There was a horrific jolt as his mount staggered with an agonized moan, and Guts' world turned upside-down as he was flung from the saddle when the horse lurched and thrashed in its dying moments, hacking blood around the arrow in its throat. A kaleidoscope of hooves and metal and snow and fur whirled past his eyes as he rolled away from the downed beast, and time regained its grip upon the world, seeming to rush faster than normal as though to make up for its lost moments, and his feet and hands skidded upon the wet, icy earth, forcing him back to his feet, and he wrenched his sword around to block an overhead blow that he sensed more than saw.

"_I will decide the place where you die."_

It was one thing to fight on foot in a widespread battle where there was room to move and watch for enemies, but this was a tight-packed melee with horses crowding on all sides, and Guts spent many long moments battering back the soldiers who now pressed eagerly forward, and the Hawks were calling out, urging their mounts closer as well, but the soldiers were like jackals spotting wounded prey and would not be forced off.

Footing was awkward at best, the bodies of dead men shifting and slipping beneath his boots _–Don't think—_and horses jostled him with their maddened movements as his sword moved in a furious swirl of metal to deflect the hostile blows, but a hasty step backward was fouled by the armor-weighted body of a dead soldier, and the swordsman faltered, nearly falling. He spat a vicious curse as he fought to regain his balance, bringing his sword to bear, but there were more enemies pushing forward to take the places of those he had felled, and he _knew_ that there was a sword hovering above, ready to strike, and he wouldn't be able to move—

A prickling in the cursed scar upon his neck, a rush of white and silver, and the whistle of a blade through the air—a snow-colored stallion was abruptly between him and the majority of the attacking soldiers, the silver-armor of the rider spattered with blood, upraised blade stained dark with it, and the rider's mouth twisted in a frown, his eyes turned toward the hesitating soldiers but speaking only for Guts.

"This isn't like you. If you aren't careful, you'll die."

Even in the dim, fading light of the dying day, the rider shown as something ethereal, something distant and untouchable… something from beyond Guts' dreams and nightmares.

"_Do I need a reason each time I put myself in harm's way for your sake?"_

Ally and enemy… brother and rival… savior and murderer… leader, warrior, philosopher… friend…

_Griffith._

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**To Be Continued…**

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A/N 3:** For those who were wondering, a _Flawed_ update should be up tomorrow with either _Mission X_ or _What Must Be_ the week after. 


	7. Those You Must Face

**Title:** _What Must Be_

**Chapter Summary: **The Raiders are reunited with the Hawks, but a conflicted Guts feels distant and separate from his companions. He realizes that the only way to resolve his doubts is to face their cause head-on, but some meetings are more difficult than others.

**Rating:** PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it _is_ Berserk, after all.)

**Warnings:** Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.

**A/N:** This chapter is a sort of personal celebration for surviving my freshman year of college. **throws confetti** In approximately one hour, I will finish moving out of my dorm and head back to my home and my darling kitty. **w00t**

… _passing_ my freshman year, though… Well, the jury's still out on that little doozie. Wish me luck.

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-Chapter Seven-

**_Those You Must Face_**

* * *

"This isn't like you. If you aren't careful, you'll die."

Even in the dim, fading light of the dying day, the rider shown as something ethereal, something distant and untouchable… something from beyond Guts' dreams and nightmares.

Indecision, uncertainty, confusion all warred within Guts, freezing his limbs into stiff immobility. His tongue was as rough and unwieldy as a lump of sand, but he managed to force out a single, hoarse word. "Griffith—"

"… but isn't that all you're good for?"

In the twilight of sunset, the silver armor took on a darker color, like bronze or copper… or darker, seeming almost to blend with the ruby drops of dead men's blood that still clung to the upraised sword, and the blue eyes were no longer blue but such a dark shade of scarlet that they could well have been black, and the pale mouth was parted in a cold smirk that bared pointed fangs for all the world to see.

Pain exploded in his belly, and he nearly toppled to the gore-soaked ground as one arm clamped instinctively across the gaping wound that dribbled black blood upon the tainted snow… the wound bestowed upon him by the demon when they had last met. The demon's clawed hand was upraised, glistening wetly, and the horse was no longer white but such a deep black that it seemed to swallow the light, eyes burning with an inner fire.

"**Death follows you, Black Swordsman."**

Needles of pain stabbed viciously into the cursed mark upon the swordsman's neck, such a small pain alongside the agony of the wound that poured his life out over his hand, and he felt the liquid fire of fresh blood welling out of the brand. Breath rasped in his throat, coming in harsh gasps, and he could no more speak at that moment than he could raise his sword from where it hung limply in his grip, tip grounded in the snow.

"**It is your hound, a beast tamed to your hand, but keep it too long in your company and it will turn and devour you."**

The pain was everywhere, crawling through his blood and behind his eyes, and everything was fading away to scarlet and black, the colors of old blood, and his vision was filled with those cold, cruel eyes…

* * *

His sword was in his hand, upraised against the darkness surrounding him, and wild dark eyes flitted from shadow to shadow, harsh gasps muffled to soft pants through sheer willpower alone. His legs ached from his awkward position, not quite a crouch and not quite kneeling.

His sword… the greatsword, not the dragonslayer. He blinked dumbly, his heart throbbing in a panicked rhythm.

Pressure against his back… a pole, the central support for a tent.

Tent.

Noises, outside. The chilled moans of night winds. The muted crackling of campfires and the shifting of restless horses.

A camp.

… the Hawks…

He lowered the blade, its hilt a steady and solid presence within his grip. Real.

Something shifted at the edge of his vision, and he whirled silently, eyes searching and focusing upon the two sections of darker shadow showing at the base of the tent wall and the slender silhouette outlined by the dim gray light of a distant flame.

The brand prickled, and the leather binding his sword's hilt creaked softly with the pressure of his grip. Not strong enough to be a demon…

Behelit.

Griffith.

He waited, pulse thundering fiercely within his chest and the hand clenched around his sword.

The shadow waited, perfectly still, and many long moments passed.

A dark voice whispered within the back of Guts' mind, the presence that told him when to duck and when to strike, when to run, to hide. The voice that helped him to survive.

_So easy,_ it whispered. _One lunge, one thrust._

_Through the tent wall._

_Pierce the heart._

_The nightmare will be over…_

Something hidden and ugly twisted within his gut.

…_before it ever has a chance to start._

The sword's tip raised slightly, a serpent contemplating a strike.

_He would not even hear it coming._

The clench of coiled muscles, the weight of choice upon his shoulders, and the fluttering tickle of uncertainty deep within his chest.

…_wouldn't even hear it…_

He could picture it, the scarlet-armored demon standing tall, just outside, dark eyes cold and unforgiving within the dark helm, the scent of blood and pain and death hanging around it like a cloak, and his grip tightened upon the sword…

But the image changed.

Black eyes melted into blue. Blood-red armor faded to silver and white, and the cold smirk twisted into an amused grin. Snow-white hair fell around a boyish face that had yet to grow into the hard lines of maturity, and Guts smiled bitterly.

He sank back to sit upon his folded bedroll, shoulders resting against the tent's center pole. The greatsword lowered, grounding its point into the damp earth within the tent with a barely audible scrape.

The silhouette jerked slightly as though startled out of its reverie. Guts watched as it shifted and grew blurry, silent steps carrying the watcher away and into the depths of the camp.

"Griffith…"

* * *

"_If you aren't careful, you'll die."_

_The words rang clearly over the din of the battle, and Guts was torn, uncertain, but the decision of what to do was taken from him when one of the castle soldiers lunged toward him, blade at the ready, and then the time for thoughts and questions was over, and all was blood and violence once more._

_He was separated from the white rider, and it was not until some time later when the fighting had settled and his sight cleared of the red haze of battle that he was able to stand and breathe and watch as ghosts from his past came and went, taking prisoner the few soldiers who had surrendered, aiding the injured Hawks back to the rest of the company, searching for the dead and dying, sometimes calling greetings to him when they passed near enough._

_The few Raiders who had accompanied him from the keep returned to his side in trickles of two and three, bruised and spattered with gore yet laughing and generally euphoric with relief and victory._

_Far to his right, he noted the immense bulk of Pippin exiting the woods surrounded by his company, the Breakers, and then there was a uproarious chorus of shouts, and a large section of riders accompanying the Breakers broke away and did all but stampede toward the small gathering of Raiders, the familiar figure of Gaston at the forefront._

_It was a repeat of the scene several days before in the castle courtyard, save that this time there were the horses added to the mix and the separated Raiders were greeting one another as well as Guts. Later, he would think back and marvel that no one was trampled._

_Gaston executed a moving dismount from his horse that would have left a desert tribesman green with envy, and in short order the Raiders Captain found himself with his second in command wrapped around his neck in a very Gaston-ish display of welcome and a crowd of jabbering mercenaries surrounding him._

_Ill at ease, and yet more embarrassed than anything else, Guts tried to pull away from the strangling embrace without it looking like he was trying to pull away._

_The scene was interrupted, to Guts' relief, when a ripple of tension ran through the assembled mercenaries, and the Hawks turned as a whole to see a procession of several riders winding their way down the main road from the keep, the familiar form of the Lord Brien at the head._

_The lord of the keep's expression was reminiscent of a thundercloud before a particularly vicious lightning strike, and yet he and his entourage had none of the air of people prepared for a fight. Guts thought that they looked rather resigned, mulish, like children after being soundly beaten in one of their games._

_A white rider rode out from the mercenaries, a cluster of riders following him as hounds follow their master. The Raiders captain moved forward past the screen of mercenaries that hid the confrontation from his sight, the Raiders following him as his own pack of hounds._

_Guts slowly drew nearer to Brien and Griffith. He could see the Hawk Commander's profile as the two parties neared one another, and a chill crept down his spine at the small, icy smile upon the blue-eyed Hawk's face… the smile of a wolf looking down upon particularly troublesome prey._

"_What a way to welcome our return, my lord," commented the Hawk commander with all the cool politeness that came from years' worth of political games. "You keep very bad company in your men-at-arms."_

"_Your rabble provoked the attack," bit back the nobleman with a sneer. "My son—"_

"_Was in danger." Griffith's tone was carefully impassive. "My men expended quite a bit of effort saving him from the attacks of your own soldiers. My men would not fight unless somehow provoked."_

"_There is no excuse for kidnapping a noble born child." Brien's hazel eyes locked onto Guts with fury, and then the cold gaze slid past the Raider captain to look at something further back. Guts glanced around and saw what had caught the lord's attention; Arlen, pale and terrified, was seated in front of one of the mounted Raiders._

_Griffith's smile widened ever so slightly. "No excuse for kidnapping a child? Or no excuse for kidnapping a noble?"_

_The lord was clearly not accustomed to anyone –certainly not an upstart peasant mercenary—speaking to him in such a way. His mouth opened and closes, groping for words, and his cheeks paled to a sickly shade of yellow out of sheer fury._

_Guts found himself repressing a grin, a sense of nostalgia sneaking up on him unnoticed and unopposed, the distance between him and the silver-clad specter from his past leaving him feeling oddly detached. _One way or another, they always end up speechless.

Typical Griffith.

_In the end, Brien returned to his castle with Arlen at his side, shaken but unharmed, and several dozen dead men-at-arms lying at his back, spilling scarlet upon the trampled snow._

* * *

The sky was grim and overcast when Guts exited his tent. The clouds were the surly, slate-gray sort that heralded a heavy snow. The first tendrils of sunlight should have been highlighting the land by now, but the clouds stubbornly held the light at bay, leaving the camp in a dim twilight.

There were few if any people up and about. The camp was nearly four hours forced march away from the castle, and the Hawks had outnumbered Brien's men-at-arms even before the battle outside the lord's keep. There was no hurry for the mercenaries to be up; today was for the injured to recover and the weary to rest.

Guts' feet followed the dark, muddy paths worn between the tents by the passing of many men with his cloak pulled closely around him. The near-silence and the familiar sights around the camp left him feeling vaguely as though he were walking through another dream, but his eyes were always scanning the gray and black shadows for anything unexpected. Even here he could not lower his guard, and some part of him regretted that loss. His breath came in gusts of mist, the cold air biting at his throat. Occasionally a fellow early riser would nod or call a greeting, but they were ignored.

His steps led him between two closely placed tents, the large tents used to shelter supplies or act as shelter for the wounded, and he knew he was near the center of the camp. A small, metallic scraping sound caught the swordsman's attention, and he altered his course to pursue it. The path abruptly opened into a clear area that held a small, dwindling fire ringed with dark, bare earth, stark against the untouched patches of snow. Seated upon a section of log, his back to Guts, was Judeau.

"Well, that's new."

Guts started at the unexpected comment, halting in his tracks. "What?"

Judeau never turned to face him, focused on sharpening one of his throwing knives. Even if Guts could not see the action, the noise of a whetstone against a blade was very unique.

"I almost didn't hear you come up. Normally you clump around camp like a plowhorse." The Scouts Captain tossed a quick, teasing grin over his shoulder, taking any sting out of his words. "Been practicing?"

Guts frowned. "… somethin' like that." The warm scent of something porridge-like drew him nearer the fire, and he debated only for a moment before settling on a section of log on the fire's opposite side.

_Judeau._

His eyes traced the young man's freckled cheeks and blond hair, the intent frown pulling at the other captain's mouth, the confident, sure motions of the other's hands as he focused upon the small throwing knife. Content. Happy.

_Alive._

A small ache within Guts' soul, one among many, throbbed painfully before fading and disappearing into nothingness.

Tawny eyes flicked up from their work and met Guts' dark gaze. The swordsman looked away.

The steady _scrape-scrape_ of the whetstone faltered and stopped. When Guts glanced up once more, it was to find that it was Judeau's turn to examine him, dark golden eyes seeming to trace every bit of Guts' being. The scout's mouth curved into a small smile.

"It's good to have you back."

Guts looked away, tracing the path of a spark as it swirled up from the fire and fizzled into nothingness upon the wet ground. _But am I really back?_

The brand chose that moment to flare with pain, and Guts' breath caught, his eyes narrowed, his head coming up like that of a wolf scenting something suspicious. His gaze fell upon a white-cloaked figure far down one of the wide trampled pathways, pale hair gleaming in the morning light, conversing with a nameless soldier outside one of the larger tents.

The man once known as the Black Swordsman released his breath in a slow hiss, pressing one hand against the brand. His fingers came away speckled with rusty red, and he rubbed his thumb over them to wipe it away.

Judeau's eyes followed the movement, his posture startled and alert, gaze going from Griffith to Guts to the brand before focusing upon Guts' face at last.

The scout's voice was remarkably level when he asked, "What was that?"

Guts strangled the growl that wished to rise in his throat, rising and turning away, pulling his cloak more tightly around himself. "Nothing," he said harshly. "Just nothing."

He strode away, caring nothing for direction just so long as it was away from there. The weight of that all-too-familiar sapphire gaze pressed between his shoulders until he passed out of sight.

* * *

There was no such thing as shelter, not on these broad, naked plains of snow. The forest was a dark smudge between the white ground and the blue, blue sky, and the camp was a vast spattering of white and brown and blue and black that stretched around and masked the opposite horizon from sight. From Guts' vantage point atop a small hillock, the dark figures scuttling amongst the tents were small enough to be blotted from existence by his thumb.

Instincts ingrained in him by years of constant combat screamed that he was an idiot to stand atop a hill highlighted against the sky, and he obliged them by walking down the knoll's opposite side, allowing the slick, snowy slope to hide the camp from sight. His boots crunched and squeaked in the icy blanket covering the ground, leaving dark, muddy scars in his wake.

He drew his sword, contemplating the (comparatively) slender blade, wondering how long it would take to work his strength up to where he would be capable of wielding the dragonslayer once more.

_Somethin' tells me I'll be needin' it._

He found himself haunted by a nightmarish image of the Hawk encampment falling beneath a tide of monstrous Apostles, of snow morphing into the hideous, lumpy red ground of That Place Between, the place of sacrifice.

_How long? How many years until the Eclipse comes again?_

Somehow, he did not think that he would be able to live through that nightmarish massacre again. Once was one time too many.

_If this is real…_

The leather-wrapped hilt of the greatsword creaked within his grip, reassuringly heavy, pulling on his arms and shoulders with its weight.

… _I can't lose them again._

His eyes narrowed, and he raised the immense blade into a ready position. "I won't."

That dark voice stirred within him once more, whispering to him, and he knew with cold certainty that there wasonly onesure way to guarantee that the Eclipse could never come.

But could he do it?

* * *

The sun had moved to its zenith by the time his mind came away from the trancelike state that battles and sword practice brought upon him. The distinctive creaks and shuffles of someone stepping lightly over snow had broken the empty silence encompassing the snowy plain.

An all-too-familiar voice, heavily laden with disdain and exasperation, intruded on his solitude. "Only _you_ would come all the way out here just to swing your sword around."

His heart froze within his chest, sinking like a lump of the heaviest, coldest iron to settle somewhere low in his stomach. He turned slowly, dread and fear and disbelief and hope all swirling together into something jittery and uncertain within him.

Somehow, he had never truly realized that this… this hallucination… this dream, this second chance, call it what he would, would mean being able to see _her_ again.

The sunlight highlighted the metal sections of her armor and turned her dark eyes to a jewel-like shade of amber brown. Against the bright snow and the pale sky, her skin seemed to be even darker and richer than he remembered. She stood tall, head held high, as fierce and proud as the wildcat he so often had compared her to.

_Beautiful._

"What are you _thinking_, wandering out here alone? What about your duties as captain?" Even though his memories of the Hawks may have faded and dimmed, Guts clearly remembered this particular glare; this was the glare that she reserved especially for him, the 'How can you be so _dense?_' glare that had plagued him incessantly through his years with the Band of the Hawk. "Just because you've been sick is no reason to neglect your men; if you're well enough to trek all the way out here and swing that monster around, you're well enough to at least make sure all of your men are in one piece, and—_what_ are you _staring_ at?"

He blinked himself back to reality, his heart pounding so wildly that he could easily feel his pulse in his ears and neck and the palms of his hands and deep in his chest. "Caska."

It was hard, so hard to stand still. She was _right there_, and he had never wanted anything in his life more than he wanted to touch her at that moment, to reassure himself that she was not some illusion come to haunt him. His pragmatic nature stepped in before he could do more than stare dumbly.

… _She'd skewer me._

She had exchanged her glare for a suspicious narrow-eyed frown. "Maybe you aren't as well as we thought."

He shook his head, more to clear it of wayward thoughts than to deny her theory. "I haven't neglected the Raiders," he grumbled, swinging his sword up and over his shoulder and into its harness. "Scratches and bruises, mostly. Beddyr has a gash on his sword arm that's giving him grief, and Tils caught a crossbow bolt to go with the wound he got at the keep, but they're healin'."

That seemed to stymie her for a moment, though whether it was the fact that he had looked after his men without her having to berate him first or the fact that he answered her at all, Guts did not know. She frowned, eyes narrowing. Finally, she let out a soft, annoyed huff and said, "Griffith was looking for you. He wants details about what happened. Don't take all day."

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away up the hill, soon vanishing from sight.

Guts let out a long whoosh of breath, feeling as though he had just run an entire circuit of camp. He chuckled softly, feeling more than a little disconnected from reality.

"Damn… I hadn't realized how much she'd mellowed over the years."

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To Be Continued…

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A/N: I now have a Yahoo!group dedicated to all of my fanfiction, complete with chapter and story previews, fanart, alternate storylines, and more. Visit my profile for more info.**


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